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Marc took off his t-shirt and contemplated his naked torso in the mirror. Broad shoulders, smooth pectorals, defined abs. It was all perfect. Then he brought his hands together in front of his abdomen and tensed his muscles as much as he could. More than perfect. Impressive. Lastly, he looked down at his ribcage: the place where it was almost impossible to acquire visible musculature, due to the most basic limitations of the human body itself. He contemplated it for a long minute, perhaps more. Then he made a satisfied gesture of approval. He was already beginning to appreciate some slight undulations in that area. Very small, but very valuable to him, given that he had spent three weeks working intensively on improving that part of his body. One can have perfect abs, that is not difficult, but to recover the ribcage with musculature is a whole other story: it is the Achilles’ Heel of any bodybuilder. It does not really allow itself to be covered by muscle, in spite of all the time spent in the gym.
The checks now finished, Marc put back on the close-fitting t-shirt he had chosen to wear that day. He had always been concerned with having a well-toned body, but had begun to take it more seriously, making it more chiselled in the gym, since he had begun working as a bouncer. That was also the moment when he decided to shorten his name. What body-builder was called Marcos? None, he thought in that moment. Marc was a far more suitable name. It struck him as a name with character and personality. He did all of this no more than five years ago.
He adjusted his tight jeans and went to the kitchen. He squeezed the juice out of three oranges, mixed into a bowl some honey with a decent handful of oats, and took out of the fridge some fat free yoghurt and a carton of egg whites. He left the yoghurt on the table, next to the juice and the bowl, and chucked into the saucepan the equivalent portion to six egg whites along with a whole egg, previously beaten together. Whilst the omelette set, he contemplated the glass of chocolate milkshake that his mother had left prepared for him before she had left for work. She just doesn’t get it, he thought. No matter how many times I repeat that my breakfast has to be special, she doesn’t listen. When the omelette had turned golden, he put it onto a plate and took it to the table, along with his customary everyday multivitamins. Upon finishing his breakfast, he washed, dried, and put away all of the utensils he had used. Lastly, he poured the chocolate milkshake down the sink and left the glass in there, dirty. That way, at least he wouldn’t have to put up with sermons at midday, when he would be coming back to eat.
He returned to his bedroom to grab his rucksack, mobile phone, and put on some comfortable trainers. It was already ten in the morning and he needed to get going. He had ahead of him a full and perfect day: a morning at the gym, an afternoon of rest, and a night of work. Beforehand, he would have a black coffee in the café downstairs; very strong as always, to stimulate the central nervous system before beginning work with the weights.
As soon as he left through the door on the Avenida de Marín, he took a right and walked towards the car-parking spaces. Checking the state of his car just as he was leaving the flat had formed part of his daily routine for years. Marc walked forward only a few metres and, in the distance, he contemplated his little jewel. It may not have been the most modern, or the most sophisticated, but it perfectly fulfilled everything that he asked for in a car: big, sporty, and powerful. He had invested a lot of money in prepping his Opel Calibra 1994 into its current state: impeccable red, with an imposing spoiler, and a suspension lowered as much as the law would allow. And, of course, it was petrol. In an ideal world, diesel cars should be abolished, Marc would often say. They’re a great source of pollution, and only serve to express the complexes of those who drive them. Often, men and women who make modesty their main virtue are simply trying to hide the fact that they really don’t have any others.
Basically, he could pay for a private garage, but, who would want to have a car, just to hide it away? Marc was of the opinion that a true man had to be proud of three things in life: his body, his car, and his amorous conquests. And for him, the three needed adequate publicity.
He didn’t bother to approach it. As soon as he checked from a distance that the spoiler was still intact, he turned around and retraced his steps in order to go towards La Rotonda, the café situated on the other corner of the street. His morning coffee awaited him.
On the way, he savoured the idea that as it was the Wednesday before several festive days, the place where he worked would be especially crowded at night. Deep down, he felt privileged. He had a comfortable job that allowed him to feel powerful, to decide of his own free will who could enter and who couldn’t’ and, at the same time, it opened the doors for him to meet teenage girls who were keen to enjoy moments of intimacy, without the danger of his receiving unwanted calls the next day; those of regret that they have fallen in love after a night of pleasure, or those who are simply hoping to repeat the experience.
But Marc did not fall in love, nor was he ever with the same girl twice. His sculpted body allowed him to change his partner every night. And they were always young, very young. Because as he himself often said, if a girl has a body and the will, who cares about her age? Who’s bothered if a young girl spends a pleasant time in your arms? Her parents? If her parents are the ones who are bothered, they shouldn’t let their daughters stay out until dawn. Nature is wise; it wouldn’t give desire to someone who couldn’t handle it, he always concluded.
He pulled the glass door open and entered, taking a look through the entire café, giving the room a once-over, without lowering his chin even a centimetre. Two women seated alone, each at a table. At the bar was one dishevelled-looking man, and another man doing nothing. On a table at the back, on the wooden flooring, a couple concealed with some effort that their routine was becoming unbearable.
But in spite of his grand entrance, nobody looked up when he walked in.