The next morning I went running in the shitty hotel gym, trying to outrace all my insecurities. Absorbed in taking my frustrations out on the treadmill, wearing headphones, I was surprised to see Gabe suddenly appear next to me. He was dressed down in red gym shorts and an old, thin grey t-shirt. He ran easily, gracefully, but he resolutely failed to make eye contact with me. His gaze was laser focused straight ahead, at a random, blank point on the white wall in front of us. His pointed derision was driving me crazy.
Inanely, I ran and thought. I was powerfully reminded of the time that Gabe had explained urinal etiquette to me. We had been about to go off to college, stuffing our faces with various kinds of underpriced dumplings, crab rangoon, and scallion pancakes from the little hole-in-the-wall two streets over. When Gabe excused himself to go to the restroom, I had been brooding, missing the moment before it was over and wishing that we were on an actual date.
In the present, Gabe's sneakered feet pounded out a staccato rhythm on the adjacent treadmill. I focused on my memory, determined that I would not speak first. That night, when he'd returned to the table, Gabe had complained bitterly about some guy who had chosen the urinal right next to him, even though there were four other options readily available. Being a woman, I had never considered all the details, undertones, and cultural zeitgeist involved in public male urination before, and I suddenly had questions.
As teenage boys tend to do with bathroom humor, Gabe ran with the topic, talking exaggeratedly about the awkwardness of the Winnie the Pooh, and all the other unspoken rules associated with looking, talking, and whistling while taking a piss. I could still clearly remember the reflected neon light in his eyes as he went for the cheap jokes, trying hard to make me laugh. Hitting the buttons to start my cool down next to him, I wondered if Gabe recalled that conversation, if he was trying to make some sort of statement by choosing the machine right next to mine.
About twenty minutes later, out of breath, I obnoxiously threw my feet up on the sides of the moving belt. Gabe yawned exaggeratedly. He kept his pace, still pointedly refusing to acknowledge my presence. I didn't know what his deal was, but I figured he was up to his old tricks. Gabe had always liked to keep his conquests off balance, to assert dominance early. I hated that his schtick was working.
Back in my room, I looked at my sweaty, red face in the lighted bathroom mirror, giving myself yet another pep talk. When my internal argument failed to make any discernible impact on my mood, I decided to bolster myself in the hotel's picturesque hot tub next to the beautifully landscaped pool.
I threw on my black bikini, a tank top, and a pair of rubber flip flops, then I walked around to the back of the building. I expected to be alone. However, when I pushed opened the ornate iron gate, I was surprised to see that Gabe was already leaning against the concrete wall of the in-ground spa, his arms extended casually on the edge in the cool air. From behind, I saw an understated tattoo of a Janus bust, the god's inscrutable face looking both ways on his left shoulder blade.
I snuck up behind him, trying to be nonchalant as I dropped into the hot water without preamble. Situating myself amid the small, cresting pool, I leaned back, stretching my neck and sticking out my chest. I felt like a silly, preening bird, but I somehow couldn't help presenting myself to him.
I was gratified when Gabe's resolve broke, and he finally looked me up and down. He signed resignedly and said, "Hey, Fox. Good run?"
I grinned, pleased to have ostensibly won the round, and gestured toward his lean torso. "Tell me all about the new ink. How does it go over with your attending physicians, or the patients? You can't tell me that you can hide all of that under scrubs."
Gabe cracked a lopsided grin. He played dumb, but I knew him too well. He had always been perversely proud of his physique, his decoration.
Gabe's voice was full of natural swagger, practiced bravado, "Well, sweetheart, I'm the goddamn best. When you set the curve, you can pretty much look however you want. I would think that you would have similar difficulties with the authority figures, working with all those uptight, conservative lawyer types. I mean, you aren't exactly unadorned yourself."
