“The marathon,” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“When did you start training?”
“Recently.”
“How recently?”
“People are overly interested in defining that word.”
She smiled again, but something in her face had closed.
“First marathon?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re planning to warm up with ten minutes of running before meeting someone at six?”
“My schedule is reasonable.”
“What’s the appointment?”
“A consultation with a personal trainer.”
Dani reached toward the console and reduced the speed.
“Good.”
“I didn’t ask for your assessment.”
“No, but you got it free.”
The belt slowed to a walk. She took a drink from a bottle and wiped her forehead with the hem of her shirt. My attention dropped to the line of muscle across her stomach before I redirected it toward the machine display. This was a gym. People possessed bodies. There was no need to become distracted because one of those bodies had excellent definition. Dani stepped from the treadmill and reached for a spray bottle.
“All yours.”
“Thank you.”
She cleaned the handles and screen with careful efficiency. That made her theft of my reservation slightly less offensive. She collected her water bottle but did not leave. I placed my bag beside the machine and climbed onto the belt.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’ve used one of these before?”
“Yes.”
It was true. Technically. The gym in my office building had treadmills. I had walked on one four times during a short-lived January wellness initiative. Dani leaned one shoulder against the divider between machines.
“The red clip attaches to the machine and your clothes,” she said.
“I understand emergency systems.”
The man on treadmill four made another suspicious coughing sound. I clipped the red safety cord to my shirt and began walking. Dani stayed on treadmill seven. Her continued presence altered the calculation. My printed plan required a five-minute warm-up; pride required evidence that I belonged in the room. I increased the speed.
“You’re sprinting,” she said.
