One freezing, drizzly morning, Donovan Maclean was in the park, stretching his muscles out before a workout, when a small, lycra-clad woman popped up out of nowhere, all cheekbone and smirk and short black hair. With her hands on her hips, he might have mistaken her for an unusually pretty boy if it wasn't for her feminine curves. He did his best to ignore her.
"Jesus, look at the size of you," she said in a husky Irish lilt, then began copying his stretches.
Even accounting for Don's over-scaled figure, she was petite, yet the way she bit the inside of that fat grin, and let her stare run all over him, had his balls shrinking back into his body.
He sighed. Don was sick of only seeing the worst in people. After three years in the army, five in the police and eight with Gemma - before she cheated on him - all he wanted was to run, work out and read books. Alone.
He had nothing to say to this annoying woman. "Ma'am," he said, and jogged away.
She burst a laugh, and bounced up alongside him. "Ma'am? Seriously?"
He pulled up his hoodie.
Living off his meagre savings, Don's vow of solitude meant spending most of his daylight hours between the park's public gym and the library. Even his lunches were free, courtesy of the dinner-ladies at the primary school where he odd-jobbed. Where the kids called him 'Sad-Hulk' and tried to make him laugh with corny gags that always cracked him up, eventually, because anything said in their little-duck voices was funny. Kids didn't count in his solitude rule. Kids made his days. And it would probably be as close as he ever got to being a Dad.
"I'll train with you, if you don't mind," the annoying woman said. She was slim but her soft edges suggested she wasn't nearly as fit as she thought she was.
He shrugged. After the last few weeks, exhausting himself so he could sleep at night, he was in the best physical shape of his life. "You can try," He rumbled.
The woman's thick eyebrows arched half way up her dollish forehead. "What do you mean by that?"
He raised his palms.
She wouldn't take the hint, running alongside him three times round the park, two strides for each of his and her fists clenched. Whatever she lacked in fitness, she made up for in determination. Don sprinted to the pull-up bars.
Last night had been particularly bad. Haunted by Gemma's face: unable to hide a self-absorbed, lascivious smile when he'd confronted her about her secret meetings. Then, worse, by her uncharacteristic vitriol as she walked out. His innocent, demur girlfriend hissing, "My cunt came so hard!"
So, this morning he punished himself, and this annoying woman. She was impressive, too, almost matching him set for set, push ups, pull ups, sit ups. Only half way through some squats, did she roll back on the damp grass, clutching her calf.
"Ouch. Cramp. Motherfucker."
Don considered leaving her to it, but couldn't, feeling indirectly responsible for her pain. He settled at her feet, unsure what to do. She dropped back on her elbows and thrust her leg at him, face clenched. He tentatively rubbed at the pink skin beneath her pedal pushers. He was no physio, but there didn't appear to be anything tensed in her muscle at all. He rolled her calf, studying its impossible smoothness in his leathery palms. A good few steamy breaths passed before he noticed the almost absorbent silence.
Her big, dark eyes were glittering slits, her cheeks mottled crimson. She slid the rain-plastered fringe from her forehead. "You do extras?" she whispered. Again, the smirk.
She must have mistaken his dumbfounded gawp for incomprehension, because she underlined her bombshell with a lingering glance down at her hips. He let her go. Her blunt proposal hung between them, throbbing. He squirmed. She was utterly unconcerned with his awkwardness. If anything, she seemed to relish it. She sat up.
"See that house?" She nodded at one of the fancy white stucco buildings overlooking the park. Actually, the fanciest, whitest one. "That's mine." She cleared her throat. "I... watch you out here every morning."
Why did that sound like the dirtiest thing Don had ever heard? He hadn't even touched himself since Gemma. Whenever he tried he was filled with nightmarish porn of his ex and her lover. Now he had a lurid flash of this woman watching him from her window. Naked below the sill—
"Sorry, Love," he said.
"Pearl."
"Pearl. It's really flattering, but I'm just not—"
"You're not gay. I saw you checking out my bum."
He did? Don stood up. He willed his feet to run. The woman stayed put, blatting massive eyelashes at him. This was why he preferred to be alone. Now he was going to have to upset her.
"It's nothing personal." He clutched his hands in front of his shorts. "I just want some time off from... people."
"No." She rolled to her feet.
"No?"
"No. You don't want that. You want to hear about your new job. While you rub me down. Come on."
She trotted toward her house.
All he had to do was walk off in the other direction. Or just stand his ground. But his legs, and a familiar warmth spreading between them, had very different ideas.
Her house was bigger inside than out. An expensively pared-back, open-plan sweep of smooth black granite, bespoke from sunken lounge to minimalist dining area, to a kitchen so elegant he had to look twice to recognise it. Even the grey daylight — from an entire wall of glass — was filtered cool by her verdant, private garden.
