Second thoughts

He always starts his workout on the cross-trainer. Works up a neat, subdued sweat before making his way to the treadmill and beginning his run at a leisurely, careful gait. Launches into a full blown limb-flailing hurricane. Showing off his finely-toned attributes that never bounce. His running reminds me of a tiger just as it spots it prey, then changes its mind for some reason known only to it.

He and I have reached the point where we nod a supportive hello to one another, mid-workout, without giving more away than we need to; just in case it tires us out before we reach our limits. I always imagine I can push myself much further when he’s here – stretch my body even more so on the floor mat just to see how much I can take. An awkward, stiff, prepared arch.

I don’t know his name – the particulars are unimportant. All I know is that he looks after himself, at least two to three times a week, and that it’s paying off. For him physically. For me, simply. A month ago, he was a tub of lard trying to work himself into the shape of a Jean Paul Gautier aftershave bottle. He grimaces as he lunges, lifting the 60 kg weights up and above his head. I want him to feel the pain – it will all be worth it in the end.

I’ve reached the end of a particularly troublesome workout. The day had started out promisingly – sunlight kissed my keyboard as I’d arrived to work in the early morning, when no one else was around to interrupt me. My boss is a lady and is more than aware of that fact. Her large breasts give her an aura of authority. I had to rewrite a strategy. I made it up again, from scratch.

Reaching the gym, the first thing that greets you is the stale smell of dying sweat. I tuned the TV to MTV and put it on mute. Rihanna’s lithe, supple body pulsed at me as I ran on the treadmill. I imagine that one day I could look like her, knowing I never would, which was OK, even as I felt every jiggle of fat dance on my spine as I jogged. I speed up the mill just as he waltzes in, his gym bag casually strewn over his shoulder, acknowledge the casual flick of a ‘Hey’ from his eyes and mentally order my groin to keep pace with my heart rate.

Thirty second break before hitting the weights. I gulp water down like cheap, free wine. I picture lighting up a smoke even though I imagine I’m a better person for quitting, knowing I would kill everyone in my office for a puff. I check my mobile uselessly. Reception at our office means everyone is effectively alone.

My LCD light flashes blue – a message from the Skype mobile app. I try logging in – it works. It’s a message sent via the premium service my girlfriends convinced me to sign up to, even though only they use it. That I will never need it. Just in case.

The message is from a recipient I knew.

It's from me.

I dive into a changing room and hit play. It doesn’t work. I need to go outside for better reception.

Back in the gym, I spot him toying with dumbbells half raised in the air, as if he’s been waiting for me to return. He stares into the centre of his reflection in the mirrors that surround the weights; doesn’t break his own gaze, his mouth a pouty full stop. It’d be off-putting if you stood a little to the left, where he looks like the Minotaur having a work out. From this angle he looks acceptable. Tameable. I see myself wearing a chequered blue apron, standing in an expensive, marble-floored kitchen I’ll never be able to afford. I can’t cook anything more imaginative than a pasta bake with black pepper sprayed over its top, but I see it all the same.

Outside, a spring breeze melts the sweat from my shoulders. I feel refreshed, even though I’ve only been working out for twenty or so minutes. When I stand in front of the mirror at home, my stomach will be washboard chocolate for approximately thirty seconds.

My phone indicates that I’ve received a video message. Before I hit play, I’m presented with a still image. It’s my face, a grotesquely frozen modern art portrait. Mascara is running away from the rims of my eyes and down my cheeks. My eyes are bloodshot. Grape-coloured lipstick is smudged outwards, touching the four corners of my mouth. I don’t want to hit play. My index finger does it for me.

The footage starts from the beginning and the camera pans across a bedroom that isn’t mine. The bed is Hiroshima – all manner of different activities could have exploded. Sex comes to mind because of the casual way the duvet hangs three-quarters off the frame, the bed sheets discarded like bad, inappropriate jokes. They cling to the edge of the mattress.

The camera stops dead at the bedside cabinet, zooms in slowly, until it blurs. An open packet of condoms stands up erect next to a pale blue lampshade and an iPod dock paused on Marvin Gaye’s Let’s get it on. There’s no way I would make love to that – nobody romantic would.

The camera zooms out quickly as Gym guy saunters out into view from a corner and collapses onto the bed. He’s completely naked, falls face front, his butt cheeks a solar eclipse. He murmurs something into the sheets – I don’t catch it.

The camera pans a little to the left and I appear. I’m not crying yet, but I’m on the cusp. My face brims, bubbling with something just beneath the surface. It’s worse than seeing me cry. I look pathetic, as if I can’t handle even the tiniest mishap life throws my way. My heart thuds slow and hard against my ribs. I’m glad I missed the call.

‘Don’t fall for this guy,’ I say, whispering into the mike as low as I can, afraid I’ll wake the universe. My gaze flicks briefly to Gym guy. He’s a corpse.

‘Nothing was wrong exactly,’ I continue, trying to hold it all in, doing an excellent job and failing at it. ‘But that was all there was to it.’

I think I get it. I end the video before I actually start crying.

A blue light flashes.

It’s me again, a live video call. I take it – right now, I have nothing left to lose. I’m in a beer garden, visible by the alcohol bevarage conglomerate sponsored shades and billows of cigarette smoke rising into the air like wishes from dandelions. I notice the date of the call in the top left-hand corner: a month away, when British summertime officially begins.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

‘Always fine,’ I reply. I’m wearing sunglasses.

I see the straps of the red summer dress I saw in the window of Next and am thinking of buying once I’m paid next week. To celebrate my weight loss and the fervent but chaste fantasies of Gym guy. I always knew he was no good for me, but thoughts are nothing more than possibilities you can almost reach out and touch.

The me in the screen lifts the wine glass and clinks it against the edge of the phone’s screen. I smile as if I mean it.