I step onto the mat, shoeless, and I know he's watching me.
I kneel down, sit on my heels with my forehead on the mat, slowly stretching my back.
In the mirror, he's squatting. He's got like 300 lbs on the barbell, and he goes down, and up. Down, and up, like it's nothing. He's 200 lbs of dark haired, shirtless muscle but I have to look away 'cause he almost caught me staring.
Luke. His name is Luke.
Belly up, now, I do the bridge. Give my abs a nice stretch. Push my chest up through the sports bra. I wonder if he likes my yoga pants.
I stand up and I bend over, reaching for the tips of my feet. Am I being a little too obvious, pointing myself at him like this? Likely, but who cares? At this time at night, there's only us here at the gym.
It's a gritty, warehouse-like establishment, sitting in between nowhere and barren countryside. The kind of place you get sick just watching it pass by the side view mirror. But it's the only gym in town that's open 24/7, and with my job, I kind of need that schedule.
I put my sneakers back on, grab my water bottle and leave the weights room. I don't say bye to Luke, but I do stop by the scale and pretend I can't get it working. Maybe, I think, he's finally going to come and talk to me. Maybe, I think, he'll ask me out.
I've pretended stupidity to the brink of mental retardation when a short, stocky girl with greasy hair walks up to me. She's chewing gum -- nicotine gum by the smell of it -- and without even looking me in the eye she says:
"This is the power switch. It's not hard to find you know," and flicks it on.
I smile bitterly, and I'm about to thank her when she says:
"Well, brains obviously aren't your best asset," gesturing toward my breasts. I'm too shocked to reply in kind, and she leaves me there, silent and appalled.
I glance back to see if Luke's noticed my embarrassing moment, but he's busy with his pullups. I sigh and leave. At least the scale was nice to me.
On my way to the locker room, a squeaky male voice calls out to me.
"Miss!" the voice says, "miss!"
I turn around to see a short, thin man waving at me. He's wearing stained blue overalls and looks unwashed, but, thankfully, he's far enough that I can't smell him. The man, I think he's a janitor, yells at me:
"Floor's wet, miss. Watch yer step."
I nod in thanks, raising my bottle to him. There's no way to get to the ladies' changing room without stepping on the puddle, though, so I just hope he'll forgive my footprints on his floor, 'cause this girl needs a shower.
There's a couple other girls in the changing room, behind the wall with my locker on it. Chit-chatting about shaving tactics, I think, but I'm just too focused on un-sticking these damn sweaty yoga pants off my legs to listen to them.
My pants are now a wet rag in the dirty clothes sections of my gym bag. The sports bra and socks soon follow, and I scour the bag for shower supplies. Clean towel, check. Shampoo, check. Liquid soap, check. Flip-flops... Crap, I forgot my flip-flops. I keep looking for a few minutes, hoping to see them pop out of some unseen pocket, but of course they just aren't there. The other girls leave the room and a cold draft hits me. I'm still naked and sweaty, so I shiver, and I decide the floor doesn't look so dirty after all.
I brave the locker room and shower floors with bare feet, and enjoy a long steaming shower. As I'm soaping up I can't help but wonder about Luke. Doesn't he like me? I've been coming here for two months and he barely ever spoke to me. Is he gay? Why do all the best ones always have to be gay?
I think about him squatting, looking at me as I stretch, and I wonder what would happen if I made the first move. What if I went up to him and touched him. What if I...
The shower goes cold and I snap back to reality to shut it off. My hand wandered between my legs and I'm so wet it can't be just the water. I blush and look around; there's nothing to separate these showers and anyone could have seen me. Thankfully, I'm alone. I sigh in relief, and get back to washing.
I dry off my hair on the public dryer and get back to my locker wrapped in just a towel.
I'm pretty sure my locker was number 77, but number 77 has a combination lock on it and I don't use padlocks.
You see, I had an... accident with lockers and locks. I was in middle school and I used an old fashioned lock with a small key to store my stuff during gym class. One day, at the end of class, as I turn the key to open the lock, the thing breaks off and I'm stuck in my sweaty track suit. They call a janitor to cut the lock, but it takes a few hours and I have to sit in class with smelly clothes and everyone laughing at me. They never let me live that down, even in high school.
I walk around, frustrated and dripping wet, barefoot on the disgusting floor, looking for my damn locker, but they're all empty. I remember where I was standing when I struggled with my pants, and there's no doubt about it.
Somebody locked up all my clothes.
I run around the locker room looking for the culprit, but there's nobody there. Nobody in the showers nor the stalls. My breathing gets heavy and my fingers scour my hair. I can feel myself flushing red with panic and anger. I lean against a wall and take deep breaths to calm down. I can't be the only one this happens to. At the lobby, they must have something that can cut padlocks.
I hide behind the door as I push it open with one hand, the other holding onto my precious towel. I bend slightly to take a peek outside, and there's three guys chatting with the receptionist, the same girl who insulted me before. One of the guys glances at me, and I squeal. I shut the door and crumple up behind it.
I curse my bad luck and get back to my locker. Sitting on a bench, I force myself back to composure. I'll just wait for the guys to leave, then I'll ask the receptionist for something to cut the lock. The receptionist... she doesn't really like me, does she? Did it really have to be her? On the bench, I hug my knees to my chest and stare at the lock, wishing my hate could break it. That's when I see it.
A small note, stuck to my locker. In my frenzied state, I hadn't noticed it. It says "wear me", and there's an earpiece taped to it. I wonder if it's for me -- but who else could it be meant for? So this is a prank, after all? By whom? Why? I just sigh and obey the note. I rip off the duct tape, wear the earpiece and turn it on.
All I hear is static. I fumble with the device, but it's really not that complex and there's not much I can do besides turn it on and off and regulate the volume. Tentatively, I say:
"H... hello...?"
A few seconds of static, then:
"Hello, Vanessa," a digitally altered voice says, "took you long enough." It sounds like someone with a sore throat talking through a metal pipe. The monster voice asks me: "Were you masturbating under the shower?"
I blush and sink my face into my hands. "Who... who are you?" I ask the voice. It knows my name, and... it was watching me under the shower? I'm sitting on the floor, now, and I didn't even notice how I got here.
The voice laughs, and it's like a fork rubbing a cheese grater. "Wouldn't you like to know?" it says. I can't even tell if it's male or female.
I ask it, "Did you lock my stuff up?" and I stand. My towel drops, and I squirm even though I'm alone. I grab it and wrap it around myself again, but it's wet, and it cooled down, and it gets me goosebumps all over my back.
"Yes," the voice says, "would you like to know the combination, Vanessa?"
"Tell me how to open it. This isn't funny, you know?"
"On the contrary," it says, "this is plenty funny. The number is easy to find. It's hidden in the sauna. In there, nobody will even notice your current state of undress."
"Or," I say, "I could just walk up to the receptionist and ask her to cut the lock. How about that?"
It laughs again. "Well," it tells me, "you could try. But what if someone misplaced all their cutters? What then? The receptionist's clothes wouldn't even fit your tight little butt, and she hates your tits, so..."
My house is a thirty minute drive away, and my car keys, of course, are in the locker. I think about walking back all the way -- in the countryside, at night, wearing just a towel or whatever clothing the receptionist might give me -- and my stomach twists and turns.
"Ok," I sigh, "I'll do it."
"Of course you will," it says, "remember: the sauna. If you tell anyone about this, I guarantee you'll regret it. I'll call you back in a short while."
"Wait! I-"
Static. I whimper, pulling at my hair. My head is spinning, and I lean against the wall. I take one quick peek at the lobby. The receptionist is gone and the three guys are still there, chit-chatting by the door.
In a haze, I find myself at the other door out of the changing rooms, the one that leads to the corridor connecting all the gym facilities. I slowly push it open. The corridor, with its black marble floor and white walls, is empty. Neon lights glow on the ceiling, and there's not a single dark spot, or hiding place, for all its length.
Various white doors, each with its own label, lead to the weight room, the swimming pool, the martial arts room. Tantalizingly close, I see the one labeled, "SAUNA".
I see nobody at both ends of the corridor. I take a deep breath and, on weak legs, I take the first step out of my safe zone. The floor is cold and still wet from the janitor's work. A cool draft caresses my legs and I shiver. My knees are bent and I'm hunched forward, one hand on the wall and the other on my wet towel. I force my feet to go one in front of the other, glancing back every few steps.
Anyone could walk out of these doors and see me, half naked and flushed. My towel is slippery and could fall off any second. I tell myself there's nothing weird. People walk to the sauna like this all the time, but my body betrays me and my nipples harden. I reach the sauna door, and my mind clears as I pull it open and walk in.
I slam into something, and my body makes a wet slapping sound.
"Are you alright?"
Big, rough hands are holding my shoulders. I look up and see Luke staring at me. He says: "Sorry, I was just walking out, I..."
I gasp and mouth a few words. I'm stuck between wanting to talk to him about me, about him, about us, and about my predicament, and no sounds come out and he's just looking at me. His eyes wander on my body.
Suddenly, he lets me go and faces the other way. "Uh," he says, "see you around, mh, Vanessa...?" and he leaves before I reply. The door closes behind him. Stupefied, I look down at myself and I see the towel dropped, exposing my breasts.
I blush and curl up, hugging my knees in shame, and it takes a while for me to calm down and start looking for the combination. There's nothing on the floor, nor on the benches. Nothing stuck to the walls either. I realize I don't even know what I'm looking for; it could be a post-it, or it could be carved into the wood, or written in sharpie.
