“I’m excited!”

“Why is that?” Theodore asked the individual, the same one he had painted with.

“Because I’m going to Paris!”

“What for?”

The individual lowered their intensity, bravely revealing, “To dance.”

“You’re a professional dancer?”

“Not yet but I’m trying.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Mhm.”

Theodore surveyed their surroundings, plain white and delectable. He felt like he could take a bite out of the walls. “What’s the plan for today?”

“I need to keep myself in shape. Let’s go swimming.”

Flourishing their arms with much more pizzazz than last time, the individual changed the white room into an indoor swimming pool. The walls and ceiling expanded outward, materializing windows, beams, and other various infrastructure. A large dent in the ground evolved into a rectangular hole with varying depth, slowly filling with water. The acute smell of chlorine soon prickled Theodore’s nose.

The individual donned a cap, a pair of goggles, and a sleek swimsuit, diving into the pool like a dolphin before bulldozing through the water with freestyle. Theodore, without thinking too hard, spawned his own pair of swim trunks and goggles onto himself. Sinking into the pool, he swam as well, warming up with breaststroke instead.

He demonstrated immaculate form. Tucking in at the rise, letting his arms penetrate back into the water, sweeping his hands up to his chest and past his head, and kicking with the proper range before repeating the stroke, Theodore imagined himself to be a frog.

While the two completed laps, a slow pitter-patter of rain causing ripples on the pool surface gradually intensified into a downpour. Looking above, the ceiling had vanished. Stormy gray clouds thundered. A roaring rainfall crashed against the pool water. The individual returned to Theodore. “What are you doing?”

“I had thought of myself as being a frog and rainy weather is froggy weather.”

“It’s cold. Can you stop it?”

“It feels nice though.”

The individual looked in shock, warning Theodore, “Your skin is turning green!”

Theodore didn’t seem bothered. His nose flattened. His webbed appendages elongated and his tummy turned an ugly yellow. His eyes popped out.

Panicked, the individual proposed, “How about we have a race? If I win, then no more rain.”

“Ribbit,” Theodore agreed.

The two climbed out of the pool and onto the diving boards of their respective lanes, each of them positioning and steadying themselves. Sentient tripods and cameras gathered at the edge of the pool, serving as spectators for this match.

The individual, quivering from the cold rain with chattering teeth, shakily proposed, “One lap, back and forth?”

“Ribbit.”

A radio speaker boomed throughout the facility. “In the first lane, we have The Odor Frog! Smelly but effective, he’s not only a champion in breaststroke. Former record holder for the high jump event as well, Mr. Frog is a tough contender!”

On command, a foul stench from Mr. Frog assaulted all those within close proximity. The individual gagged thrice, trying to hold their breath.

“In the second lane, we have our underdog. And you know what they say. Dogs only know how to doggy paddle!” The announcer broke into hysterical laughter with intermittent wheezes while the cameras clicked and flashed for the hottest scoop.

“Haha. Hahaha. Alright. Racers, are you ready?”

“Racers, are you ready?” the individual mocked in annoyance.

“Ribbit.”

“On your mark. Get set. BEEP.”

The individual gracefully pierced through the water, producing little to no ripples. Mr. Frog leaped forward, belly flopping in with a big splash, off to a rough start.

No worries, Mr. Frog believed. His strong things should be more than enough to compensate for his abysmal dive and propel him to victory. However, as the seconds passed, the gap between him and the individual only widened. When the individual reached the end of the pool and rebounded, passing by Mr. Frog who was only three quarters on the way there, Mr. Frog realized he had been played. The individual never specified the stroke type, meaning they could swim whatever they wanted. So the individual bolted down the lane with front crawl, a much faster technique than breaststroke.

Mr. Frog desperately kicked but it was too late. The individual had finished first with almost half a lap of leeway.

“A major upset! I can’t believe this,” the announcer broadcasted. One could audibly hear the microphone being dropped.

The individual kept a weather eye on as the skies above upheld their promise. The calamitous clouds cleared back up into a warm, sunny day of boundless blue. Mr. Frog transmogrified back into Theodore who shook his head in befuddlement, positively flabbergasted.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The individual called out from the opposite end, “What the heck happened?”

“Sorry! I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I was tired.”

“You turn into a frog when you’re tired?”

“Sorry.”

“Whateva. Imma keep swimming.” The individual deeply inhaled before plunging into the clear water. Theodore glanced up and around, recognizing the pool belonged to a facility he had frequented as a child. To his left were large cylindrical water slides snaking down into a reservoir at the bottom. Encircling the reservoir was the Lazy River, a channel flowing in clockwise fashion, carrying pool noodles and animal pool floats. Currently, the side closest to him had a giraffe and a peacock. No frogs, however.

Chuckling at himself for the pandemonium he had caused earlier, Theodore submerged into the lukewarm pool. Soon, he joined the individual, proceeding to swim his own freestyle. Stroke after stroke, kick after kick, he felt himself lightweight and buoyant, his troubles lifting and his mind at ease just like when he was a kid. He almost forgot how elevating cardio could be.

Maybe he should try getting fit again.

Theodore yawned at the receptionist, his body bathed in the glorious sunlight.

“The regular membership is only a dollar a month for an annual term with a one-time down payment of forty dollars.”

“Okay, I’ll do that, then.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Theodore inserted his debit card. The receptionist then took a picture of him.

“You’re all set.”

Nodding, half-awake, Theodore made his way to one of the hundred treadmills arranged in the gym. He slightly frowned at himself. He had just purchased a local gym membership based on the funny dream from last night. This was not exactly a financial decision he could be proud of.

Positioning himself on the track, the treadmill counted down: Three, two, one, go. His thin calves and nonexistent quads engaged and flexed what little there was. His arms haphazardly swung back and forth. His chest heaved while beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and the side of his face, some of it getting into his eyes. He coughed. He retched a couple of times, his stomach empty. His throat turned dry like the Mojave Desert. Phlegm rapidly accumulated. Before long, he had to stop, panting for his dear life.

He staggered into the men’s bathroom, staring into the mirror, thinking this was nothing like the uplifting swim in his dreams. A blob of mucus came up from the back of his throat. Ptooey! Saliva dribbled from his lips. He blew with his mouth to remove the excess but the strings of saliva only dangled and vibrated. He instinctively looked up, seeing someone else had walked in, standing in front of the sinks beside him. They, of course, were washing their hands and minding their own business.

Theodore drenched his face, wiped everything off with a brown paper towel, and exited, returning back to the same treadmill that exhausted him moments before. He adjusted the settings to a milder speed. Again.

Three, two, one, go. Theodore calmly jogged with deliberation in each step, avoiding overextension of his knees and maintaining a steady cadence. He monitored his own breathing, counting to three in his mind before taking each breath. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes! The treadmill slowed to a stop. Theodore gasped for air. He felt a slap on his shoulder.

“Gyuh!” Theodore spun around.

“Yo, long time no see big T.! Whatcha been up to?”

“Woah.” Theodore observed the behemoth who towered over him. He remembered Christian from high school. A scrawny African-American kid, he now boasted thick muscles bulging and oozing with power.

“You’re huge!” Theodore blurted out.

“Eyy. Thanks! But seriously, how’s things? You lookin’ a lil’ pale.”

“Out of shape.”

“Okay, okay. You’re gettin’ started. Revving it up.”

“Yeah.”

“I respect that bro. You planning on hitting anything today?”

“Kind of, umm, freestyling,” Theodore responded.

“Cool, cool.”

“How about you? Do you have a plan? Or--”

“Yeah, going to do arms today. Biceps and triceps.”

Theodore accidentally looked Christian in the eyes. It was the same old Christian who would sing the hardest and loudest (although not the best) during karaoke every Friday in Mrs. Henderson’s fourth period English class. Theodore, along with many other classmates, would often break out into laughter whenever Christian sang the wrong notes. But you could see Christian smiling, too, with laughter in his eyes as he continued to project his voice with all his might.

“Can I workout with you? You can show me how it’s--”

“Absolutely!”

The two men stood in front of a rack of dumbbells. Christian advised, “Pick weights you feel most comfortable with. Always, always focus on the right form. Or else you're gonna go negative.”

Theodore shamelessly picked up the ten KGs, following Christian’s lead. Christian’s biceps bulged as he alternated between left and right on the curls. Theodore, well, Theodore worked hard.

By the fourth set, Theodore’s eyes were tight shut as he struggled to lift the dumbbell in his left. “Yaaaaah!”

“There ya go,” Christian encouraged.

Theodore slackened immediately after.

“You feelin’ good?”

“Great,” Theodore squeezed out.

“Rest up, rest up.”

Time passed. Set after set, the two continued, transitioning from one exercise to the next. The noise of clanks and grunts and beeps rang throughout the gym, the whole interior bustling with activity. There were young people who simply came to exercise in good health. There were old people who didn’t quite know what they were doing but at least they had the spirit. There were regulars who wore tight-fitting clothing or were in their hoodies, pumping iron with pure consistency, interspersed with lots of screen time on their phone. There were couples and friends who worked out together, who held idle chatter and cheered each other on, whether quietly or vocally. There was also this bald white guy who grunted really hard, as if he were constipated, for the whole gym to hear.

“My arms are swollen,” Theodore complained.

“Yeah. We're gonna stretch after this last one. Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Thinking of quitting?” Christian asked again.

“How’d you know?” Theodore did not bother hiding his sarcasm.

“You're making the same face I had when I first started lol.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“A long time, man. You get into the motion of things. It’s a rhythm.”

“You got days you don’t want to go?”

“There are days I take breaks but you know, once you’re doing it, not really. It’s like me asking you why you like-- well, what do you like?”

“I like beautiful places.”

“Sure. There’s no reason, purpose, whatever. Like why do you like beautiful places? I don’t know. But you're probably gonna try going there, right? You just do it because it makes sense. Ya know?”

Theodore instinctively nodded. He thought about the ending to Ku’s story. “The purpose is in the action itself.”

“Whatchu say?”

“Nothing. You're just spitting straight facts my dude.”