Sweat and Spine

I drag the towel over the rowing machine to wipe up the sweat the last bloke left behind. We've got signs everywhere asking users to clean the kit when they're done, but no one ever bloody does. Still, as my uncle always says, customer's always right and all that. So I end up being Mr Dogsbody, cleaning up other people's bodily fluids for half my shift. Not exactly glamorous, but I can't complain. I get to use the gym for free when I'm off the clock, have a laugh with the lads, and there are enough fit girls coming through to make the day go faster. Better than stacking shelves or waiting tables, which are probably my only other options, and if I quit, Dad would go ballistic. He got me this job so if I walk away I'd either end up with a black eye, or Mum would. So I stay.

After I'm done I fling the towel over my shoulder and lean against the counter.

"You seen that lad doing pull-ups like he's possessed?" Jay says with a smirk. "Took his shirt off and everything, like it's Love Island."

I snort. "Mate he's about three reps from a hernia."

Jay grins. "Megan's gonna tell him off again."

"She should start charging for the show."

Jay throws a rolled-up sweatband at me and I duck, laughing. Jay's a good laugh, as the pilates ladies start gathering he's telling some story about a bloke who set the treadmill to full speed and couldn't work out how to slow it down. Explains the guy's face was like a beetroot when he finally went over to help him. I look over at the group of women gathered by the door to the studio, mostly oldies, mums and grandmas, but then sat in the corner on a bench near the studio door is a girl I haven't seen before. Her hair is tied up, it's impossibly shiny and the brown strands falling down her back reflect the spotlights over her head. She's hunched over looking at a book, just quiet, whilst all the other women chatter around her. Jay is still jabbering away but I don't hear him anymore, I don't know what it is exactly but I can't pull my eyes away from her.

Megan appears, beaming as usual, and calls all the women into the studio. She greets the girl and asks if she's done pilates before, whilst she replies her hand reaches to slip the book back into her bag. She's not looking at what she's doing and she misses the opening, the book tumbles and drops to the floor without her noticing. She follows Megan into the studio and as the door swings closed behind them I look at the book as it lies forgotten on the floor. I glance around to see if anyone else has noticed, or is heading over to pick it up, but everyone is busy on the machines or chatting to customers. As I push away from the counter Jay gets in my face.

"Oi, you off with the fairies or what?"

"Yeah, yeah. One sec," I ignore him and walk over to the bench, picking up the book. It feels soft and worn, like it's been read a thousand times already, the cover cracked at the spine. On the front is the title A Little Life, I've never read it, I don't read, but something about this cover feels familiar. I turn it over to look at the summary on the back, what's that called again? Like a blubber or something? No that's not right. I start reading, there's a quote about pain, trauma, survival, four friends in New York, and one of them haunted by what he won't say. I read it again and let the words settle. I usually steer clear of stuff like this, I've already lived enough of it without needing to read about more. I flip through a few pages, skimming some of the sentences here and there, wondering why she wants to read this book? Surely a girl like that doesn't need to read about pain? She looks like the kind of person who lives inside a rom-com movie.

Jay barks at me from across the room. "Hey dickhead that's enough daydreaming, do something useful will you?"

Prick. I close the book and start wiping down a bench to look busy, keeping one eye on the studio door. When the class ends she walks out, her hair a little messier, cheeks flushed, but that same calm around her. I walk up and clear my throat, but when I try to speak it croaks, catches, I try again.

"Hey. You dropped this."

She blinks, takes the book. "Oh, thanks." She looks at me like she's trying to figure something out. She's turning away, I panic and try to think of anything to say to keep her here.

"You know, I've been reading too lately." I grin. "Mostly the backs of cereal boxes, but still."

She blinks, expression unreadable.

"Or like, gym manuals. Protein shake labels. Loads of technical stuff."

Still nothing. I feel the heat rising under my collar.

"I read the back of your book," I say. "Sounds heavy."

She pauses, tilts her head and looks at me a little differently. I don't know why I suddenly feel like she can see right inside my head and a nervousness I never usually feel bubbles under my skin. "It is." She smiles, not dismissive, just quiet, and then she walks away. I watch her go and it feels like someone's pulled the plug out of me.

...

I dump my gym bag into the boot of my car, the engine coughing when I turn the key, as it always does. I'm waiting for the day this car takes its last breath and praying that it'll last me out the rest of the year. Back at halls I wave half-heartedly at my flatmate and shut the door to my room, dropping my bag onto the floor and stretching out on the bed. I haven't been to pilates in a long time and my legs are already aching from the class, the effort still glowing in my limbs.

I open my laptop, scroll through my emails, and then push it aside, trying to read a chapter for my course but nothing sticks. I lay back and close my eyelids, feeling the exhaustion roll over me like a tidal wave. I can't sleep, not now, I've got way too much to get done. I force myself up off the bed and head to the kitchen, flick the kettle on and watch the cheap fluorescent light blink faintly above me. I fill a mug, toss in a teabag and head back to my room, sitting properly at my desk. Maybe a different, less comfortable setting, will spur me into action? I lift l my bag up onto the table and unzip it, pulling out my water bottle, textbook, the wrappers from all the cereal bars I've eaten this week. Then rooting around for my lost earbuds my hand brushes the paperback I've been hauling around with me. It's one of those books. I'm sure I've read it a hundred times already but I always find myself coming back to it when I can't work out what to read. It's haunting, real and it helps me to know there are others out there who have also felt pain.

I thumb the pages idly and find something wedged in the centre of the book, not a note but a folded flyer, creased down the centre and slightly sweat-blurred at the edges. One of those cheap black-and-white ones from the gym that they keep stacked by the front desk, this one listing the class schedule. I stare at it for a second, not sure what to make of it. Maybe it just slipped in by accident or maybe he tucked it there on purpose? There's nothing written on it, no number or name or message, just the flyer. Still, it pulls his face straight back into my mind, vivid and too clear to ignore. That cocky grin, messy hair and the flicker of a blush when I actually looked at him. I can't help thinking about the way he tried to flirt, all swagger and obviousness like someone who's used to it working, but it's not my style at all. Although the moment after, when he mentioned the book, that was unexpected. There was a shift in his face when he said it, like I was seeing behind the bravado. Maybe I'm imagining that, or maybe I just want to believe there's something under all that confidence that he doesn't show anyone. I know I have a tendency to pull myself into limerent fantasies, molding people into the image of what I'd like them to be, rather than what's truly there.

He's not what I typically go for, not even close. That level of arrogant peacocking would usually be a complete turn-off for me, but God, he's hot, distractingly and annoyingly hot. The shape of him under that T-shirt, even just imagining it I can feel the saliva collecting in my mouth. The worst part is that he knows it too, and that kind of awareness should be the ultimate red flag, but then, when he mentioned the book, it seemed honest. Didn't match the act, and I liked that, probably more than I should. I hold the flyer in my hand a little longer, then slide it back between the pages where I found it, pressing the book to my chest as I lean back into the chair and let the thought of him linger a while longer.

...

I walk into the library like I've just landed on another planet, somewhere too polished and quiet, the smell of paper and dust thick in the air. I head to the front desk already wishing I hadn't come. I consider bolting out the door, but then I remember why I'm there. That book has been playing on my mind, and that girl, so I just need to find it. Lay this to rest. I make my way up to the counter and clear my throat.

"I need a book," the woman stares back at me blankly. "Oh shit, um, oh, um sorry. I mean, I've forgotten the title." Jesus how can I be so thick.

"Do you remember anything about the cover?" She asks.

"Um, it was white with like big letters," I hold my fingers out wide as I try to think. "I think the letters had a picture like in them, if you know what I mean? I think it was like in New York and like dark shit. Sorry. I mean dark stuff."

The lady doesn't blink, just nods, stands, walks and I follow her. I look nervously around at all the people working as we weave through the huge hall full of desks. The place is silent, other than the noise of fingers tapping on keys or the occasional scrape of a chair being pushed back. Eventually we pause in front of a bookshelf, I hover awkwardly as the lady bends to pull a book from the bottom shelf. She reaches up and hands to me. I see the title, A Little Life, that's it! I mutter thanks and head towards a quiet corner where no one else is sitting. I crack it open and start to read.

The words feel heavy like punches, some of them I don't get, others feel too close. I read about bruises and silence, covering pain with jokes, trying to survive the memories that crawl out in the quiet. It digs into the things I'm always hiding. I glance up at the wall and notice the clock hanging there, surprised to see I've been sitting here over an hour. That's the most time I've spent reading a book since English lessons in school, and the emotional rollercoaster of this story has me feeling drained. I need air, so I get up and head toward the main space.

Then I see her. Just sitting at a table with her book open, pencil moving fast like she's fighting for her life on the page. The sunlight behind her hair creates a halo around her head, and that dress, soft and yellow, steals the breath out of my lungs. I walk over without thinking, pulled toward her like I've got no choice.

She looks up, eyebrows arching; I don't speak, just slide the book across the table. She stares at it, then at me, and her smile grows wide. I feel it thud hard in my chest. She stands, takes my hand, and leads me through the rows of books right into the back of the library. My heart's hammering like mad and she lifts a finger to her lips, asking for silence. I nod, because I can't speak anyway. She reaches up and brushes her hand over my cheek. I freeze. Her eyes are glowing like she sees something I don't, and every ounce of strut I've ever had falls out of me. Then she kisses me and the world disappears.

It's all fireworks, heat and the impossible softness of her body against mine. I try to stay composed and keep it together, but my body betrays me. I'm hard in seconds, breath hitching, hands trembling as I fight for control. She leans in closer and I feel myself press against her thigh, the contact so sharp and perfect it sends a jolt through me. I shudder, helpless to stop it. It's humiliating in the same way that teenage boys dread getting a boner at the swimming pool.

I break the kiss and whisper, "Shit. Sorry."

I brace for laughter, for her to step back in disgust, but she doesn't. She presses closer, smiling, hips moving against mine with a slow rhythm. She uses her lips to trace my neck, a finger gliding down my jaw, and her body grinds into me until my brain can't hold a thought. All I know is the feel of her, the friction, the scent of flowers on her skin. I fight to stay present, but it's already crashing through me. The exquisite pressure builds low in my pelvis, coiling tight in my gut like something alive. Her hips roll and the thick press of her body on mine lights every nerve, I grip her waist without thinking as my thighs tense. The ache at the base of my spine throbs with each movement and the sensation of her curves brushing the hard line of me through my trousers tips everything over the edge. My breath catches, ragged and shallow. I feel myself throb, hot and unstoppable, as I jerk forward slightly against her. The release is sharp and I shudder hard, hips twitching, my cock pulsing in my pants as I spill into the cotton, soaking through in warm, humiliating spurts I can't control. My legs feel hollow, like they won't hold me up much longer. I let out a sound, barely more than a gasp, and bury my face in her shoulder.

Afterwards the silence hangs heavy and I blink through the fog, already aching with embarrassment. She must think I'm a joke, but when I finally muster the courage to look into her face her eyes are soft and glint like she's got a secret to tell me. She smiles and leans in to kiss me again, slower this time.

"That was hot," she whispers.

I laugh because I don't know what else to do, relief and disbelief flood my senses. She looks up to the clock on the wall and her body stiffens. "Crap, I've got a lecture. You going to be at the gym tomorrow?"

I nod and she brushes her hand against my face one last time before she turns and walks away, her hair swinging in time with her step. I slump against the shelf behind me, sticky and stunned. The shame already slipping away, leaving me with a massive grin plastered across my face.

© 2025 Alice Stokes. All rights reserved.