Locker Room Talk

Locker Room Talk

There is an intimacy that comes with seeing another person naked.

I don’t mean the nakedness involving sex with a willing partner, or the nakedness of your feet resting in stirrups as your doctor pokes and prods.

I mean the nakedness of stripping down in the locker room at the gym, dripping with sweat, hair clinging to your forehead, with nothing but a minuscule cloth wrapped around your body.

And all the while, chatting away with the woman beside you who is also naked and sweaty and wearing what is laughably called a towel.

We started chatting about a year ago, when we both staggered into the change room, gasping for air, cursing our respective trainers.

At first, conversations were mostly about our evil trainers, but over the course of a year, we have discussed work, family and the other personal things that only women discuss. We have settled into a routine of sorts and although we only see each other at the gym, we talk every day and notice certain details.

Like yesterday.

“You left your hair down,” I said to her as I wiggled into panties.

She normally pulls it back into a smooth stubby tail. It looks good on her—puts the focus on her enormous dark eyes—but yesterday she left it down and used a flat iron.

She ran a hand over her bob. “I have something after work today, I won’t have time to go home and do my hair.”

I hooked my bra, stepped into my pants. “Job interview?” She’s not entirely happy with her job and I wondered if she was looking for something better.

“No.” She laughed as she buttoned her shirt. “I have a date.”

“Do tell!”

She grinned and told me about the guy she met on line. They have exchanged texts but are finally meeting face to face.

“You’re meeting in a public place, right?” I can’t help but worry. I’m old-school and can’t wrap my head around on-line dating.

“We’re meeting at a restaurant, listening to jazz music.”

“Do you want me to drop by and make sure he’s not a serial killer?”

She laughed. “I’ll be fine. We’re in a busy club. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

“You better.” I point a finger at her. “I want to hear all about it.”

“Promise.”

It’s a promise she hasn’t kept.

She wasn’t at the gym this morning. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t even know her name. The writer in me has concluded that one of two things has happened.

Date Guy turned out to be a serial killer and her dismembered body is scattered in an alleyway somewhere. Or, she didn’t want to show up in the same clothes and do the Walk-of-Shame at the gym.

As there was nothing in the news, it’s most likely she’s still in one piece.

But if she is in one piece, I want to hear why she wasn't at the gym. Is she still in bed? Is she alone? The woman owes me a story!

* * *

This is a true story, happened a few weeks ago. I saw her at the gym after the weekend. And to paraphrase Grace VanderWaal, I now know her name.

Eyes Closed

Today's muse: Verse Escape: Friday 55

* * *

Eyes Closed

Eyes closed to hide sorrow or, perhaps, to withdraw from harsh reality.

No matter.

Either way, peace at last. Away from intrusive questions, awkward gazes. Pitiful murmurs.

The light is not so bright here. Rather, it surrounds in a candlelight glow, a warm embrace.

The gentle rocking soothes and comforts, wraps me in eternal sleep.