There was the door opening incident.
I was confused and focused at the same time. People coming in, coming out- hands intermingling as they try to reach for the metal bars to pull/push the heavy glass panels in and out. Excuse me’s. Chuckles. Apologetic smiles. And there you were. Behind the cicada mass of Russian-speaking women in velvet training suits and plastic bags. You opened the door for me. Tried to, anyway. I was already half way through my own movement- arm stretched forward, hand in a grip position, I ended up yanking the door open for you. You took a step to the side to make way for me, your shoulders caving in ever so softly. My jaw tightened as I passed. My nostrils flared. I hated myself for not slowing down. For not stopping. For not making eye contact. For not saying thank you.
Every time I returned I pretended not to look for you. Out of the corner of my eye. In the mirror. I arrived one evening as you were leaving and wasn’t sure if we saw one another. Actually- I was sure I saw you. Or a version of you--you guys all look alike in your shorts and gray shirts.
I stretched. Put my headset on. Wheeled my iPod to the loudest, most energy-inducing track on my Workout playlist and got on the treadmill.
The following week I returned a little earlier to meet your time. Those who leave early usually get to bed early. You’re either a garbage collector, you do an early morning workout, or you’re in the financial industry. Your blue suit dismissed the first. The time and place at which we met barred the second. I vote for the third. Which means you’re probably really good at math.
And that’s excellent. Because you seem to have done your math and today you came later than usual. I met your eyes by the entrance. You were already in action. Arms and legs in perfect synchrony. Strong body. Head high. No TV. I climbed on the machine next to you, picking up speed to match yours. You stayed on for an additional 15 minutes passed your time as I progressed into my workout. Then got off. You left your sweatshirt by the window. As long as it is here- so are you. I finished my run, and before heading out to the weight room- left my sweatshirt, semi folded, by yours. They were like two puppies at same bench leg—getting to know one another while their owners busied themselves at a nearby Café.
I turned around from the window. You stood by the water cooler. I met your eyes. Eyebrows scrunched together. When I was younger, I would say you were angry. Now I know it can also come with the uncertainty and internal dialog of what’s next- what’s the right thing to do. Were you standing there by chance? Were you waiting for me? I walked past you, feeling like I was walking on marshmallows. Large steps, gulping space. Zero finese. Ever more aware of my pants clinging to my thighs.
Why do these casual encounters seem so...what's the word I'm looking for?--possible--elsewhere? At a bar, a Café? Why is it so difficult here?
From the weight room- I peaked back. You weren’t there anymore. I worked my Arms, legs, abdominals. And when my iPod’s battery gave in, I put the weights back, picked up my sweatshirt from where I had left it--careful not to drop anything--and headed out.
In the past, situations like this would result in a persistent inner-dialog about all those things a guy should have done. Or should do. With you, I just felt content. I was alright. With you, i just want you to keep doing what you're doing. Notice me. Stay focused and centered--don’t let me throw you off; that pushes me away. Find your comfort zone. Take your time. As you do so, so will I. Even though you wouldn't know it from looking at me, I like to follow your lead. And keep me in your mind- in a small little place—don’t let time and inner-talk push me away. And we’ll see.
We always have Mondays on the treadmill and our sweatshirts--resting side by side, my sleeve on your hood--getting to know one another.
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