Jerk

“Sorry,” I say with a wince. “I’m terrible at gifts.”

“Don’t get me wrong, of course. I obviously love them. They’re the only ear buds I use.” She pockets them and winks at me. “Are you coming?”

A muscled guy in a sweaty white tank top walks past us, heading for the locker room. He seems to have no awareness of how much space he takes up in an aisle, because Prisha and I both have to step out of the way so as not to get knocked over, and he barely notices. The aroma of his sweat mixed with his spicy deodorant intoxicates me. “I’m … gonna shower here,” I decide rather spontaneously. “I’m pretty sweaty, and I … could use some extra time to think. Y’know. About profile pictures and stuff.”

Prisha, of course, pierces straight through my lie—but clearly chooses not to acknowledge it. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Don’t get into any trouble, Rome.”

“In the shower …?” I ask innocently, then grab my backpack and head off.

The men’s locker room in an obscure gym like this is likely just what you expect: poorly lit, full of some serious male funk, and a lot of men either sizing each other up or checking each other out—or both. And as I shove my stuff into a locker and get ready for a shower, my eyes devour a dozen different flavors of muscular gorgeousness. Sweaty chests. Puffy arms. Tight, toned abs. Broad shoulders. Wide backs. Calves like baseballs and asses like basketballs smuggled within drenched gym shorts. I’m barely paying attention to what I’m doing, my eyes too busy everywhere else. My heart is racing before I even make it to the showers.

A half-naked muscled guy reeking of sweat carelessly bumps into me as he walks past. Either he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but his elbow knocked me enough to illicit a wince. Even still, my instinct is to apologize for being in the way. He meets up with a buddy of his across the aisle, the pair of them laugh about something, then they walk away.

One subtle fact seems to go unnoticed: the fact that my staring went unnoticed by everyone. And returned by no one.

Even when I shower, no one sees me. I’m literally a floor tile in this place. Or a lighting fixture. Or a showerhead. I stand under the spray of hot water, surrounded by naked bodies, slick muscles, and soapy chests through a veil of steam, and not one eye meets mine. I almost make eye contact with a guy across from me, then realize he’s checking out the dude to my left.

Just when I decide enough is enough and start drying off, some guy shoves into me on his way out, causing me to stumble under a showerhead, soaking me (and my towel) anew. And as I open my mouth to apologize for being in the way, he grunts, “Watch where you’re standing, dipshit,” over his thick shoulder before he, his chiseled jaw, and firm model-boy ass strut away.

What a weird instinct I’ve cultivated over the years.

To apologize for being in everyone’s way.

After drying off (again) and getting dressed, I head out of the locker room, my backpack over my shoulder, and beeline for the door. My priority is quite suddenly cracking open a beer the second I get home, then browsing the web for something funny to laugh at. Maybe prank videos. Or cute kittens getting into trouble and falling off furniture.

Until I’m stopped by a voice. “Hey, Romeo?”

The voice comes from the young man at the front desk: Danny Chen, a cute, sweet twenty-something my eyes are very familiar with, because whenever he’s here, no one and nothing else seems to exist. He’s always crisply dressed in his uniform athletic polo, its stretchy material pulling across his toned pecs and tucked into a pair of khakis. His dark hair is flipped up in the front and slightly parted, with subtle highlights that complement his warm, honey-brown complexion. He wears a pair of thin, stylish glasses he keeps pushing up with a finger every few minutes, which I find to be one of his most adorable habits. He isn’t overly muscular, his frame modest and small, but considering the toned nature of his arms and subtly broad shoulders, I’m fairly sure he makes use of the gym he works at.

And whenever he looks at me, my heart goes funny and my brain twists up like a dishrag, robbing me of the ability to form basic sentences.

Which is why I respond to him with a: “I’m hello, yes?”

Danny squints at me, his face going wrong. “Huh?”

I clear my throat, then approach the front desk. “Sorry. Long day. Hello.”

“Hey, Romeo.” He smiles, showing the tiniest dimples at the corners of his soft, velvety lips—or at least I imagine they’re velvety, from all the fantasies I’ve had about kissing them. “Your membership is about to expire in a few days, and I just wanted to check if—”