The Tell - 3. Chapter 3

Eyes linger far too long on me in the changing room. What exactly is it about me that’s worth looking at? A glance in the mirror confirms I haven’t made any embarrassing errors in dress or hairstyle, which eases my nerves a bit. This starts to feel like the new normal; shot nerves, jitters, the creeping feeling of self-consciousness that, contrary to any of my expectations, had intensified rather than abated with age, and had accelerated when my feelings for Stan had developed.

Nobody inside is naked. Even as I walk into the shower room, not an ounce of private skin is on show. I think back to where I was only a month ago – Guangzhou, China; dirty air, buildings stretching upwards to infinity, standoffish people, who, when approached, offered either a cold shoulder or confused look, and yet, in the moments you’d think they’d want to preserve their modesty or hide away from strangers what has become natural for us to hide, they showed no care, had no inhibition. Everything was on display and nobody looked. Not even the novelty of being a foreigner could turn their eyes to me, and so I did as they did, but not for long, as the surprise at my own bravery and the novelty of the situation inevitably meant that I’d soon had something to hide.

As I lose myself in thought I remember the pain of the outbound flight – all alone for 13 hours, every minute getting further and further away from Stan, the weight of absence crushing my chest, and how I gripped my phone throughout the whole thing, opening texts, closing them, picking up a book and reading a few words only to quickly return to the messages exchanged with Stan, studying every response, every symbol in excruciating detail. It was only 10 days, what were the chances he’d change his mind? Reneging on a promise couldn’t be so hard when there was such an imbalance of interest, such as I perceived it, but I also could not be present to maintain his enthusiasm. So it was on that flight that I vowed to set a firm date for our first practice, not as soon as I landed, as the time difference wouldn’t allow it, but as soon as I could. And though my worst fears had not been confirmed, I still found myself unable to trust that everything could fall into place. But I had to change. This was no way to function; on the brink, waiting for emotional disaster. And so I take my time, and don’t rush back out to the machines.

I stare at the floor on my way out. If my guess was correct, he would be on lateral arm extensions by now. As I turn the corner and come within sight of the cable machines, what I see sends a cold shiver down my spine. Stan is not alone. With him is a young man in a blue tank top – from the calisthenics club. As they talk, he reaches out and holds Stan’s shoulder, stabilizing it as he extends the cable outwards from his chest. Blood pumps through my veins furiously, yet I am totally immobilized. Blue Tank Top is a model of human symmetry; toned and muscular in equal measure, everything proportional, everything in its place. What nature had given him as a template, he’d honed to perfection in the gym. I look at my reflection in the mirror to my right and suddenly my body is wholly inadequate. Standing there is a squat, pallid creature with barely a trace of muscle. Years and years of work at the gym, for nothing. Who am I now to Stan? Who can I possibly be after this? Suddenly, I’m not the only person in the world. Not the only person capable of training him, of mentoring him, of being the one he turns to when he needs advice, or a friend, or something more than a friend. And just as I feel him slipping from my reach I’m simultaneously struck by my sheer naiveté and arrogance in thinking that I could possibly ever be that one person.

Do I let this scene continue, or do I intervene? The first minute after witnessing this sight, I have no choice: I’m rooted to the ground. But when I come around, there is a decision to be made. How long could this possibly go on for? Surely he only came by to correct Stan on his posture for this one exercise; surely I cannot have so easily been completely usurped. And how could I approach, now that my ego and confidence had taken such a hit?

I turn to a device that I’d found myself employing more and more: switching off. Disconnecting from situations, making myself feel small again in the context of the wider world – something I had been incapable of doing only a few short years back, when I was younger and more emotionally volatile. And now that the volatility was rearing its head again, a part of me appreciated the fact that it didn’t die, but at the same time cursed its crushing grip.

My steps towards the cable machines are full of apprehension. Not knowing what I’m going to say, I approach the scene. Stan is facing the other way. Blue Tank Top sees me coming. I say nothing as I arrive.

“Hey there.”

There’s something about his eyes that’s undeniably alluring; they draw me in with an invisible cord. Suddenly, I want to know more about him. To get inside his head. The effect is hard to grasp, but simultaneously very real. And then I realize – the signal he is sending me is the one I’ve so often deflected – at Pride, on Fridays at Mask when my friend Maria drags me out, at so many places where I least expect it. I am almost certain of what I suspect.

Stan turns and, smiling, introduces me to him: Ian. Ian is just correcting his form, he says. Ian used to be a gymnast when he was younger. Ian recently moved from New Zealand. How Stan had managed to ascertain so much in such a limited time befuddles me. And the way he speaks of him, with such poise and lofty admiration, shakes me.

“Your upper arm was wobbling, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, he was holding it pretty steady, but the pulley position was a little low and his angle was off.”

I look at Stan. “Is that right?” He nods at me.

“I can’t defend little bro in this case. He’s told me you’ve already covered this. You’re quite the prodigious instructor, I take it?”

The words ring in my ear. Little bro. Little bro. Little bro. Coming from someone barely a few years older, but whose poise belies his youth. The hand placed on Stan’s shoulder as he utters the words add force to the blow. And yet, he is so benign by nature; his aura is pure light, as though he was born with the ability to do no wrong; to never cause pain to anyone. I have met people like him before, but only rarely, and when I did, I could not retain them in my life; their purity could not survive in my company.

Stan barely reacts to the term, despite it coming out of left-field, and so early on in.

“I’m just showing Stan the fundamentals.”

“That’s good. He’s got a good template – he can progress really quick if he wanted to.”

I know he does. I’ve told him. I should be the only one telling him.

“I think so too. Are you a PT?”

“Used to be. Need a different qualification to carry on up here, but shouldn’t be too long. Just a bit of paperwork that’s stuck in the pipeline.”

“Cool.” I look down at the floor. Stan fails to say anything.

“You guys related?”

No! We both shout simultaneously. I look over at Stan in puzzlement. I know why I protested, but why did he? What little chance was there that it was for the same reason as me?

“Friend of a friend.” A few seconds of strange silence.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it, then.”

I search for a tell in Stan’s eyes, but find nothing. He’s nice, he says. I agree. Do you mind receiving unsolicited advice? I never thought of it that way. Oh. You were in there for a long time - did you make sure to engage your core when you were on the shitter? I smirk. Let’s see what you learned.

His form is better than ever before. With a confidence in poise and demeanor I hadn’t seen before, he extends the cable eight times expertly, feet anchored and core stable, and brings it back to dock without slamming.

“Nice. Next arm.”

I don’t fail to spot the slight disappointment in his face from my lack of approval; approval that, under any other circumstance, I couldn’t even have attempted to conceal had I tried. But watching him now, thinking about what had just transpired, I am unable to react. But why worry? What perceived threat am I afraid of? And why am I unable to exercise the self-control that I so thoroughly convinced myself I have? I know why. It’s because I’m afraid that if what I dread can never become real, then neither can anything I fantasize about.

What is stranger about this newfound relationship? How quickly the intruder formed such a close connection to Stan, or that Stan had allowed their relationship to progress so rapidly? And what did it say about how Stan felt towards me? I was so sure that Stan was the type to take a long time to become comfortable with someone. How had they clicked so fast? The dam of my rationality cannot hold the sweeping torrent of thoughts.

“Hey – I said what’s next?”

“Oh. Just go again. But on this.” Some force pushes my hand gently lower than it should be as I increase the weights. Thirty-one, thirty-five, thirty-nine. Go again with the right. Isn’t that a bit heavy? Just go.

His back arches. He grunts. I don’t interrupt.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“About my core. My posture. My technique. I know that sucked.”

My heart races. “If you want to get anywhere, suck it up and pull that cable.” It’s a full five seconds before he turns and places his left hand into the handle. A full five seconds looking me in the eye. He fares no better with this set.

“OK, I think that’s enough. Go and get changed.”

“That’s it? Three exercises?”

“Yeah. Your shoulders are your weakest spot, you shouldn’t overwork them. That should be more than enough now. Don’t bite off more than you can chew.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who sets my plate.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is I can do better than that. I can do more than that.”

“And you will. Later.”

“Fine. I’m just going to go home like this. I’m hardly sweating.”

As I start to follow him he walks a step in front of me. On our way out past the rowing machines and towards the turnstiles, Ian spots us and throws a friendly wave. Stan diverts sharply and makes his way over to him, clasping his hand into his, saying a few words that I simultaneously want to overhear and pretend never happen, and then jogs over back to the turnstiles. I offer only a hand raise and forced smile.

At the sliding doors, Stan begins to head towards the right.

“Hey. Where are you going?”

There is a tinge of regret and sorrow in his eyes when he responds.

“I need to pick something up from Hickson’s.”

“Oh OK – I guess I’ll just wai-”

“No, just go on. Don’t wait up for me. See you later.”

Streetlights paint his windbreaker amber as he marches down the lonely street. The cold black air of night bites my exposed skin. The arteries in my heart droop to the ground and lay roots. Stuck in place, I watch him disappear.

*

I can’t pull it off

Standing in front of the mirror with Stan’s sweater flush against my torso, I appraise the contrast of the salmon material with my skin. A complete mismatch. How was it, then, that he so easily could shape the color to his skin? How could his complexion, like a chameleon’s, form and mold over whatever colors touch it, as though possessing magical properties? I rub the material with thumb and forefinger, closing my eyes, when another whiff of his scent reaches my nose. Like a fading remnant of his spirit, it runs through my entire body, weakening my muscles. There is nowhere to turn. Every direction leads to emptiness, and again, I’m devastatingly alone.

In the living room, I stand between the two single-hung windows, situated at an angle to the one on the right. Shifting my eyes slightly towards that direction, I see a crack of space between two buildings. I am looking at Market Street, the quietest, least frequented portion of Market Street, and remarkably, the area is filled up by a neon sign that hadn’t been there before, a stark torch of red and pink letters, THE THIRD PATH. Like a jolt of white lightning, the sign spurs me to action. In its unapologetically garish transmission I find approval to take care of myself; to forget, if only temporarily, what cannot be, and to embrace what others have advised me and what I have avoided for so long. If they are to be believed, then my moral code is wrong. Why preserve myself for something that can never come? And so I pull out my phone and download it again. I can hear myself, not one week earlier: I don’t want to use apps. I’ve given up on them. That’s not the way to go about it. Not a solution. And yet a pang of excitement strikes me as I see the words ‘Installation complete’.

My profile remains as it used to be. Months and months old now, the picture of me outdated. I no longer have any facial hair, nor is there a beach within hundreds of kilometers of me. The ‘About me’ section feels incongruous with my personality today, so I delete it. Staring at a blinking cursor, I wonder what to type. Inspiration is in short supply. My impatience to see the grid, the human meat market, to find flesh to replace the memory of what I can’t have, is so unyielding that I simply type ‘Hi’ followed by a smiley face, and groan at my own insipidity.

I can’t help comparing everybody to Stan, and what could be more normal than to want to see beauty, to see perfection in others? Yet my lack of instant attraction to anyone else bothers me. In an instant I change the age filter to three years around Stan’s age. Could anyone come close to matching him? Telling myself that this is not about him proves largely ineffective.

Twelve are online, none look like Stan, and one receives a text from me. Hi. I wait. His presence is palpable. I skim through his profile, barely taking any of it in; all I know is that he’s moderately attractive and would be an adequate body for a bed that for so long had been craving two. Hi there. I like your profile pic. Thanks, I like yours too. The beard is gone. Shame, what about downstairs? Do you want to find out?

My heart pounds. I feel so unlike myself, cutting to the point as I am, vaulting to the finish line without savoring the challenge. And that was at once the iniquity and draw of the whole business: instant gratification. When nothing is hidden, what is there left to enjoy?

The next text takes so long to come that I have all but given up on that prospect. And yet, for some reason, I was committed to my choice. Can you accom? Yes. The speed at which things progress, like a boulder down a hill, the way the stakes are raised, giving up my address to a stranger when minutes ago I was resigned to my solitude, leaves a strange floating numbness in my chest. To my left, Stan's sweater lays draped on the sofa, like his ghost had departed its shell and left me with nothing but a memory. For my sake and my guest's, I hide it away in my wardrobe. Soon, someone I’d never met would be walking through my door, and I’d be forced to forget that, somewhere out there, the person for whom I’d wasted hours, wasted days, for whom I’d expended so much mental, physical and emotional energy, for whom I would give every drop of sweat and blood to earn his love, would be living his life, separate from mine, separate as always, while I use a proxy to satisfy my most basic needs and hope that somehow, some way, I could overwrite those feelings.

As I idly scroll through the remaining profiles, a new face pops up. I freeze up when I recognize it as Ian.

The doorbell rings.