I wait my turn for the rowing machine, a patch of cooled sweat blooming on my chest like a target, my heart pumping like a rhythmic ashiko drum. All around me, hot bodies are working hard to build muscle, stretch, strengthen, and strain—their faces alive with determination. I note that my energy feels good tonight. A grateful pain surging through my arms and legs from the weights I’ve pressed, the miles I’ve run, muscles slowly cooling down as I stand, waiting.
Taking a paper cone, I fill it with chilled water, drink, then disregard, the rower’s sliding back and forth causing my concentration to drift. My breath gently slowing.
“Daniel!” I suddenly hear, and turn.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s the Old-Timer.
“Hey, man,” I say, noting my anxiety rise. Our compartmentalized worlds outside recovery now collided and momentarily awkward. “You a member here?”
“Joined last month,” he says.
I take another cone—bend, fill, and drink.
“Thirsty?” he says.
“Hot,” I say.
I note the tiny glistening beads of sweat across his forehead, a white towel worn casually like a scarf. His ebony skin pulled tightly across worked biceps, legs strong after squats, confidence leaking after years of ostentation and self-care. I breathe in and rest my hands on my thickening waist.
“I’m going for a steam, fancy it?” I ask.
“I’m heading home now,” he says. “Another time, maybe?”
I nod, feeling a combination of relief and rejection as he wipes his palms down his fitted blue shorts. But the moment he turns and walks away I feel his slug of abandonment, familiar and braw, wishing he’d said yes.
In the steam room, three men are seated and discussing plans for the night, towels tucked loosely at their waists. Gorillas in the mist. One of the hairy men maneuvers his thick legs, making way for my arrival, nods, and then inhales with some effort the wet scent of minty-pine eucalyptus.
I lean back, worked muscles now loosening, the menthol heat opening up my chest. A lightness gradually felt in my head and causing a release of the day’s events. My mind drifts to Clara. I picture her dancing on that first night we met, a puff of red taffeta in her wake, shoes flung in some distant corner of the community hall while both men and women watched in awe. And then that kiss, our first of many fine kisses—I miss you, my love, we both do. Susannah thinks me a fool. A needy old fool. She believes she’s in love—
The door opens, mist clouding my sight before I finally realize the Old-Timer is standing beside me. Is close enough that I feel his leg graze my leg. He bends down, hands me a paper cone of chilled water.
“Have a good night.” He smiles, stroking me lightly on the shoulder. “See you next week.”
“See you.” I smile, aware the men are watching and alert to our intimate and somewhat unexpected exchange.
When the door closes I drink the triangle of water, then scrunch the damp paper with my fist. I lower my eyes again, a puff of freshly released mist clouding my view and acting as a smoke screen to what I imagine to be male side glances and hushed words. The image of Clara in her red dress suitably alive in my mind.