Every part of me screams to go home after work. This has been a rotten day on top of a rotten week. Beyond the trickle of well-wishers and the slog of mediocre condensed fiction in my inbox, I can attest that sitting in wet pants and underwear for eight and a half hours will do something irreversible to your mood.
So when the quitting hour is upon me, I sit motionless in my cubicle for a few minutes, debating how disappointed in myself I’ll be come tomorrow if I skip the gym today. I shouldn’t feel too bad, right? It’s not like I’m fucking off with nothing to show for it. I ran to that bus stop and I ended up walking all the way to work.
I let my head fall back and stare up at the corkboard ceiling tiles. I really don’t want to exercise. I mean, I generally don’t want to exercise, but at this moment the reluctance is tenfold its normal strength.
Alright, I bargain with myself. What if you do half the amount of time because you walked to work?
That satisfies me. When it comes to personal negotiations, I excel. So I grab my bag at once and descend into the basement.
I sometimes have to confess to myself that my ability to carry through on my eleven-month-old New Year’s Resolution is not nearly as impressive as it might be, given that the major perk of 55 Rhodes Avenue is its basement gym. In fact, once you consider that startling revelation, it throws my previous four years of failed resolutions into a piteous light. Membership is fifteen dollars a month for all tower employees. So I’ve really had no excuse. Still, motivation beats accessibility as much as accessibility beats resources and resources beat motivation and so on and so forth.
Regardless, I descend into the basement.
It’s a beyond decent setup: a couple rows of machines, a row of weights, a climbing wall, and a semi-enclosed basketball court all encompassed by a one-tenth-mile track. I swipe my card at the desk, they hand me a towel, and I make my way to the locker room.
Son of a bitch. I hadn’t realized how much moisture jeans retain until the moment it comes time to undress. These aren’t necessarily tight by today’s standards, but the effort needed to remove them should stand as a testament to my perseverance. I guess when the material is sandwiched between your body and a seat cushion all day, there’s not much breathing room. I refuse to dwell on this thought and finish changing.
Normally, I’d start on the track, but technically I’ve already done my distance for the day. I could go on the bike, but again, that’s more legwork. Lifting weights is perhaps my least favorite thing of all time, so what the hell have I come here for?
I could do the wall.
That’s one activity I haven’t tried yet. Not because I have any issue with heights, I just feel as though hoisting myself up into the air is putting myself more on display than is ultimately necessary.
Thinking about it now, it’s got to be a good substitute for lifting weights though. I’ll trick my body into lifting itself. How about that?
I meander through the rows of instruments and other gym-goers—a collective of young-to-aging humans waging war against the symptoms of desk-body. Besides its incredibly convenient locale, one of the other benefits of belonging to my work gym is that there are very few meatheads in attendance at any given time. Sure, there are fit people, and every once in a while I’ll catch an attractive glimpse of toned flesh—sue me, I’m a goddamn human—but in general, there’s nobody around to make me feel like I’m not doing enough. I don’t have a problem with someone who has muscles. In fact, I enjoy a nicely muscled human. I’m merely talking about the ripped, grunting-like-they’re-excreting-a-lifetime’s-worth-of-shit fuckwads who find a way to flex in your face when all you’ve asked them is whether or not they’ve seen your missing headphone. Those types.
Not that this particular hypothetical is based on real events—but it was in the elliptical’s cupholder.
The attendant hands me a chalk sock and I meander over to the climbing wall, ready to mount the structure for the first time. Ideally, what will happen is that I’ll find I’m a fucking beast at climbing first try. The ensuing cinematic adaptation detailing the discovery of my life’s purpose will earn accolades. And my character will be played by a young Ryan Gosling—I swear, we share a resemblance if you close your eyes and forget what he looks like.
I choose to start with a free climb for character development purposes, and am delighted to see that nobody else is using the wall.
At the base, I stare up at those oddly provocative multi-colored plastic shits sticking out of the surface for a good long minute, wondering to myself why we simulate rock-climbing this way: with infantile, toylike protrusions, when rock faces don’t typically have any sort of grab-hold indicators. Then, out of the blue, I hear a voice.
“Yeah, I like to plan my attack route too.”
Har-har. I would laugh if I wanted to—I can tell he means it to be funny, but it’s kind of a dick-ish thing to say. Especially given the day I’ve had, and the rotten mood that I’m already in. Under my shorts, I’m still damp, and I doubt if my crotch region will ever be dry again. If I’d wanted to just attack the damn wall, I would have. What gives this man the right to mock me, even if it is good-natured? I turn my head to tell him to fuck right off.
And immediately forget why I was so angry.
I’m almost more pissed at myself for being a cliché straight out of a romantic comedy.
Mr. Smart Mouth is gorgeous. The stranger stands a few feet away, a basketball of all things at his hip and a disarming, crooked smile on his face. I swear, I’ve never seen him here before, because if I had, I would’ve remembered. Tousled, curly brown hair, bright green eyes, impeccably shaped jaw with tasteful stubble to boot, wide shoulders emphasized by his sleeveless muscle tank—
I stop my eyes from traveling any lower, not wanting to be a creep.
Ah, well, fuck it.
Okay, there’s definitely something there.
I wrench my eyes back up to his face, wondering how long I’ve been staring. Judging by the fact that he’s cocked an eyebrow, he’s noticed my once-over. I feel my face burn as my cheeks flush. This is why I don’t socialize with other people; my ability to embarrass myself is top-notch.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to knock you off balance. I was just on my way to the court and I—well, I saw you staring. I thought I’d be funny. Guess I wasn’t really funny though—that tends to happen a lot.”
He gives a defeated laugh and scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Is it my imagination, or is he glancing over at the basketball court, wishing he hadn’t dropped by? This has quickly turned into an advanced-level awkward encounter—and that’s saying something for me.
“Right,” he continues. “I’ll let you do your thang then.”
Yes, he actually says “thang.”
This is where I decide that he’s floundering enough to excuse my own ineptitude for social interactions. I also realize I haven’t said a word thus far in our film-worthy encounter.
Be nice.
“Computing plan beta!” I semi-scream, as if this is some sort of appropriate response. Still, it’s enough to make him stop his retreat, quite possibly because I’ve shattered any and all previous metrics for worst first line. He smiles an I’m-lost-but-trying-not-to-show-it smile that honestly makes my heart flutter.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he says, playing the hard-of-hearing game. We have a gamer, ladies and gents and everyone else.
This is my chance to recoup my defenses. “I meant—because you said the thing about planning attacks when I was staring. So it was…because, like, if my mind were a computer that didn’t like plan A—beta would be, well, my secondary plan.”
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Nailed it.
He laughs. He actually laughs. This great, genuine laugh where he throws his head back a bit like a gun recoiling.
I find myself smiling in response.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I get it. That’s a thinker.”
The globally accepted euphemism for “bad joke.”
But he is being incredibly nice about it. I guess his opening line fell pretty wide of the mark as well. Mr. Green Eyes rolls the basketball from his hip to his abdomen, resting his hands across the top of the textured surface.
“That’s me,” I say.
“I like it.”
The skin between my shoulder blades prickles while my heart takes a dive. For a moment, I think I’m dying. Then I rationalize it’s probably just my physiological reaction to his compliment—though something still feels off, a lingering emotion that doesn’t belong. It seeps in through my shoes and rushes up my legs like vines.
I brush this all away, the majority of me marveling at my current situation.
Am I reading too much into his comment?
He clears his throat. “Would—would you mind if I climbed with you?”
Would you mind if I climbed you? Too forceful.
“Weren’t you going to play basketball?” Too snarky. I’m sabotaging myself without realizing.
“I was,” he says, embarrassed. “You’re right, I already have the ball.”
Please don’t go.
“I don’t actually mind,” I hear myself say. My hands tremble. “Another bad joke. I’d like it if you climbed with me.”
“I think I’d like that too.”
A monstrous cacophony liberates itself from my lungs, which I think is supposed to be a giggle, though the two sounds share very few similarities. Even as it’s coming out, it more closely resembles a demented war cry to me—something I might scream to intimidate my opponents. And yet, somehow this guy doesn’t seem to mind.
This guy—
“So, what should I call you?” I ask.
“Oh, right, shit. I forgot about that part,” he says. God, that smile just isn’t fair. “Milo Reid.”
He sticks out a hand. How positively old-fashioned! My knees nearly buckle. I really need to get ahold of myself before I do something irreparably stupid.
“Felix Macuja,” I say, taking his hand.
Just then, a piercing wail fills the gym. Both of us withdraw our hands in order to cover our ears and shrink away from the noise. But it surrounds us.
“Is that the fire alarm?” Milo shouts.
“I think so,” I respond.
“We should probably get out.”
I nod, and we go running for the exit.
Of course, it’s not enough that my ear drums have been shattered by the violently loud alarm. In the next instant, a sprinkler system engages, spraying water over everything in the open space. Fucking hell, as if I hadn’t spent enough of my day sopping wet. My irritation returns as we hustle up the stairs to the main level. Part of me had been hoping it was a false alarm that someone would disable quickly, but judging by the downpour, that’s not the case.
As soon as we’ve made it outside, I stand shivering in my inadequate clothing. The good news is at least it’s no longer raining—and I’d had the foresight to keep my wallet and phone with me.
“Well, I guess we won’t be climbing today,” Milo says with a shrug.
“Maybe not for a while,” I say, feeling massive disappointed. Not only has my plan to discover my hidden talent withered and died, but I won’t be doing so next to this charming gentleman who kindly agreed to join me. Someone or something is very much against me today, and I’m not sure what I did to deserve such shitty treatment. “That was a lot of water.”
“Look,” Milo says, turning toward me. Now that his shirt is wet, it clings to his torso in a way that excites my pulse. I do my best not to look, aggravated with myself for being so easily distracted. If he’s noticed, he’s being very polite about pretending not to notice. “If we can’t climb together, maybe we could go for a hike or something. Could I get your number? I’d like to call you sometime if that’s alright, Felix.”
Fucking fuck fucks, can I have a recording of him repeating my name endlessly? Also, who the hell does he think he is, asking if I want to go for a hike of all things? I don’t hike. I barely tolerate walking around a city. Don’t people usually ask for coffee or something like that?
“Of course, I’d be down.”
“Awesome, plan beta is a success.”
Cheeky bastard.
It feels bizarre to be giving a stranger my phone number as sirens rush toward our location—granted, it’s not like the building is actively up in flames while flailing bodies throw themselves through the windows thirty stories above, but there’s still the air of being at the scene of an emergency. Milo hands me his phone and I type in my number, then send myself a text so I have his.
An attendant from the gym is coming around telling everyone that a fire broke out in one of the locker rooms, they’re not sure why yet, but the fire department is on its way. Some people start leaving, reasoning that the gym isn’t reopening any time soon. I’ll probably do the same in a bit, though I’m hesitant to stop interacting with Milo—part of me believes he’s going to fade from existence the moment he’s out of sight.
As the attendant passes us, I’m reminded that I had a bag in the locker rooms. Chances are, all my stuff has burned up in the flames.
Well, at least my jeans have probably dried.
~
Milo calls me that night, which is stellar because I’d have never gotten past the debating-with-myself stage where I stare angrily at my phone for hours wondering why it hasn’t told me how to best minimize the possibility of rejection and embarrassment. As the Fates would have it, I’m so surprised to see my cell light up with his number that I answer on the first ring. There’s absolutely no chance for me to play things cool, since I’ve just about answered before he dialed. But he probably understands already that “cool” isn’t part of my lexicon.
“Hey there,” he says from a dozen miles away.
I can’t stop smiling. “Hi.”
“Thought you should know that we were never let back into the building,” he says casually. He’d hung around after I left to catch the bus home. “I guess the response time of the suppression system was slower than desired. There was significant damage to the locker rooms.”
“Damn. I wonder how it started.”
“I heard someone say it was ‘likely electrical,’ but I’m not sure how much they knew, or if they were just talking out of their ass.” He pauses, and I can hear him rummaging as if looking through a kitchen drawer or something. “Anyways, they say the building’s fine. So, work’s still on tomorrow! Just no gym for a few weeks.”
“Damn,” I say again. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if the offices were open tomorrow or not. I probably would’ve been told to work from home for a few days—something I should be allowed to do regularly, but the boss is a tight ass when it comes to that sort of modern practice. At least outside extreme circumstances.
“What floor are you on?” I ask, realizing that he must work in the same building. He might be new and that’s why I’ve never seen him before. Then again, I barely pay attention to my own surroundings. Who knows what happens on the other levels?
“Twelfth,” he says, and I can definitely tell now that he’s cooking while we speak. I can hear water boiling faintly in the background. “Endrion Realty.”
“Are you a realtor then?”
“I am, yeah.” I can hear his smile. Thinking about his charm, he must be a great realtor. I’d probably buy Zamboni from him if he tried selling one to me.
“That’s super awesome!” Super awesome? What am I—a twelve-year-old? Good thing I don’t work for a literary magazine, or subpar articulation would be a gross embarrassment. “That’s one of those occupations I’ve always thought would be fun but could never do.”
“It’s definitely my calling.”
“Someday I’m going to need your services,” I joke, then silently cringe, my face growing hot. “I didn’t mean—I just…Not that—”
He laughs heartily, and my face gets even hotter. I should just fucking hang up right now.
“You’re fine,” he says. Despite his reassurance, my body makes no signs of calming. All I can think about now is how I can prevent my next rash of stupidity. He continues. “Listen, it really doesn’t look like we’re going to have the chance to do that climbing together after all.”
My heart sinks a little, even though it’s not like we had some long-standing concrete plans. “I guess a fire in the gym will do that.”
He can’t see my rueful smile.
“I was thinking about that hike—”
Son of a bitch.
“—but it’s supposed to rain the next few days, and I don’t really want to wait that long.”
Jesus, this is a roller coaster of emotions. “Wait for…?”
“I was hoping maybe I could take you out for dinner sometime.”
My jaw drops.
Until now, I’ve generally taken that reaction to be an overblown cliché known only to movies, but as discussed, I’ve willingly entered into cliché territory. In this moment, the opening of my mouth is a completely involuntary effort. I haven’t been asked out on a date in…well, in a very long time. I tend to keep away from social events—especially those in settings where romantic interests are a common factor. The idea of trying to get someone interested in me is a strange and unappealing thought, which is directly in opposition to my fondness of the idea of existing within a relationship. I want the comfort and the belonging of an established connection, not everything that comes before. Yet, somehow, despite my reluctance, this man is expressing an interest in me.
I’m getting ahead of myself though. Is he expressing an interest in me?
“If you’re willing, of course,” he adds, wary of my silence.
“Oh—yeah, no. Definitely!” I say.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Yes! Yes, I would love to!”
He breathes a sigh of relief.
“That’s great,” he says. “I wasn’t sure.”
He wasn’t sure that I would want to go out with him sometime? This ridiculous notion is a curious sign that he might not know just how more attractive he is than me—and not just in looks. Part of me—the ever-suspicious part that calls upon years and years of archival memory to inform its most skeptical opinions—wonders if maybe this is a prank. After all, I can remember being that kid in high school about whom the idea of dating was a laughable offense. But I reason with myself that I don’t know Milo outside of these two encounters—once on the phone and once in the gym. He works on another floor for a different company. As far as I can guess, we don’t have any mutual friends. What would he possibly gain by tricking me into having dinner?
“So when…” I ask, letting the sentence hang. I’d almost said “would you like our date?”, but the word “date” feels presumptuous and almost dirty to say aloud.
“How about Saturday evening?”
“Fuck,” I say before I can stop myself. I start to apologize, but he only laughs. “Sorry. I’m taking care of my niece Saturday night. How about Friday?”
“Ooh, can’t. I’m busy Friday.”
Is this how we die—going back and forth suggesting dates until one of us finally gives up?
“How about Sunday?” he says.
“I can do that!”
“Alright, Sunday it is.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Now all I have to do is wait.