Once a week, after working out, I go to the spa. It’s easy to imagine a scenario where we both end up there. Maybe it’s not just that the air is going to turn out to be hot.

I’m Paul; I recently turned 36, but I can safely say that anyone meeting me for the first time would give me a top age of 27–29. Dark hair, blue eyes and a soft low voice that I’m narcissistically proud of. 5'11", 162 pounds, lean with muscles, broad shoulders and a rather slim waist, long toned legs. A flat stomach without an unrealistic six-pack. Oh, and I’m married if that’s a turn on for you.

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I’ve been going to the same fitness club for years now. A small complex with several squash courts, a gym, and a spa. Over the years, the former luxury has faded, and it’s mostly the regulars who go there. In short, it’s never crowded. A quite secluded atmosphere.

So it was on this Saturday. I like to be there early. First, it’s a great way to stay focused alone, and second, there’s no music playing in the gym. For some reason, they turn it on an hour after opening.

I’m not a jock, so I prefer to be moderate in my outfit choices. Today I’m wearing almost all black: a long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of shorts over my tights, and red trainers.

Distracted by the phone, I caught a glimpse of a silhouette passing me in the mirror reflection. Perhaps I was imagining things? Stunned at the disruption of the usual order, I put the phone away and turned around.

You glided swiftly past me and walked confidently to the far end of the gym, toward the treadmills. Your incredibly light gait was mesmerizing, and I stared after you for a while, fascinated by your sudden appearance. Who are you?

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P.