Emily snorted, as if hearing absurdity. She toweled her hair roughly, droplets hitting my face, cold. "David, please. He's a *professional*. He looks at all clients like that! It's focus! Assessing progress! Besides," she paused, giving my softly rounded stomach beneath my shirt a pointed glance that stung, "if you had one-third of his physique or discipline, *then* you could question my coach." Her words, and that look, were a barbed needle plunging into my most sensitive insecurity. I knew I'd let work consume me, neglected fitness, my abs long surrendered. But her blunt, comparative indictment silenced me instantly, pride bruised. The conversation fizzled into heavy silence.
My Probes
Driven to confirm or grasp something, I began casually probing gym details. "How was today's workout? Tough?" "Was Ryan coaching again?" "Busy tonight? Any weird encounters?" Sometimes, I'd detour past "Peak Power" at closing time, pretending to pass by, hoping to glimpse this Ryan. I saw him a few times. A meticulously sculpted monument of muscle in near-bursting tank tops, his smile artificially bright as he moved among equipment, particularly attentive to female members, frequent touch seeming natural. When Emily spoke to him, she tilted her head up, leaned in, rapt attention on her face – a look of pure trust and... admiration I hadn't seen directed at me in ages.
Her Dismissal
I cautioned her again, trying for tact, though worry edged my voice brittle. "Em, gyms can be... complex places. Don't be naive. Guys like that are walking hormones, with clear agendas. You—" She cut me off, frowning. "David, are you done? You sit at your desk all day, then slump on the couch. I'm improving myself, and instead of support, you're snide? Ryan is professional! He's helped me immensely! Stop acting like an insecure little boy, suspicious over nothing!" The impatience, the faint disdain in her tone, doused my remaining words.
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