Smoke In My Eyes

Chapter 1 I joined a gym when not only could I not zip up my favourite jeans any more, but I’d started wondering if I might be too middle-aged to wear jeans anyway. Getting old. Getting fat. And the scene is not forgiving of physical imperfection. I’m alone and it’s been a year since Bill died. It’s time. I say scene, but we don’t exactly have much of a scene in this town. There’s the Queen’s Head—don’t get ideas, it been called that since 1582—our friendly local gay pub. And we have a couple of nightclubs in the middle of town, but I don’t go the clubs. I always fear that they’ll check my I.D. and refuse me entrance for being too old. Forty-three? Get out of here, granddad! Then there’s this gym. It’s not exactly part of the scene, but according to Jess, the landlady of the Queen’s Head, it’s gay friendly. No shenanigans in the sauna, though—it’s not that friendly. “Daniel,” Jess said to me. “Get your arse into Temple and see who you meet on the next treadmill.” That’s what this gym is called—Temple, because it’s in a converted church. I suppose the joker who named it considered that funny; a temple of the body. Whatever. It’s only five minutes’ walk away from home and practically next door to the Queen’s Head. The first day in, the person on the next treadmill was a woman my age who looked like she was feeling the weight of the years same as me. I wasn't there to meet someone, though, I swear. I wasn't so desperate. I came to get in shape and a better chance of meeting someone elsewhere. Or at least a better chance of not being laughed at or pitied when I start trying. But, as usual when you have no plans for something, it happens. I’d been jogging or—walking pretty fast anyway—on the treadmill when I saw him. Not on the next treadmill, but walking across the gym floor towards the studio they hold the exercise classes in. He wore the uniform of the gym staff and, though they all wore it well, he was the one who filled it out most impressively. Older than any of them, closer to my age, with magnificent arms, a great big chest, and light brown hair cut short and neat. When he gave me a flash of a nice smile, along with a nod, I almost tripped over my feet. Okay, don’t get carried away, I told myself. He’s just a staff member being friendly to a customer. Don’t get excited. He passed by, and I turned around to watch him go into the studio. Nice arse. I wondered what shifts he did and what classes he led. I heard him say “Hello, ladies,” as he closed the door of the studio. Would I have the nerve to go to a class full of women to get another look at him? Oh great. I’d been a member for two minutes and I was already making plans to stalk one of the instructors. This whole dating thing was complicated. It’s changed in the fifteen years since I last had to think about it. Bill and me broke up a couple of times, but I always knew we’d get back together. That wasn’t happening this time. Not now that Bill was in a graveyard in Yorkshire under a headstone which didn’t mention me anywhere. Beloved son and brother, that’s all. I’d been made to feel I was being granted an enormous favour by being allowed to go to the funeral. I jogged on, moving the speed of the treadmill up a little. The woman beside me finished her run and moved on to a rowing machine. I barely noticed her leave. I shouldn’t have thought about Bill. All these months and the thought of him still had the power to make my throat tight and my eyes burn. I tried to think about the hot gym instructor instead. And all I could think of was how different he was from Bill physically. Bill was thin as a whip, whatever he ate; something I complained about bitterly to him on a regular basis, I can tell you. And he had fine blond hair, barely thinning or receding at all, even though his fiftieth birthday was rapidly disappearing in the rear view mirror behind him. Add good bone structure and intelligent blue eyes and you get the picture. No wonder even the young guys still went after him. I realised at least twenty minutes had passed, and my legs were feeling like someone filled my socks with lead. Better get out of here. They say you should start slow, don’t push too hard. My chest felt kind of tight, too. That might have been from thinking about Bill, though. I went back into the changing room and glanced at myself in the mirror. Disappointingly, twenty minutes on the treadmill had not turned me into an Adonis. I was sweating very unattractively. But at least I still had all my hair. That’s kind of my mantra. Every time I start getting morbid about being a fat old man who would never have s*x again, I think, “At least I still have my hair!” Like someone would want to go to bed with me for my hair. A long hot shower cheered me up a bit. Or at least eased the aches and pains from the session on the treadmill. I should stop fretting about the s*x part. I’d had s*x since Bill died, even if they were just casual one-off. If I wanted it again I knew where to go. There were a couple of saunas I’d been told about, though that wasn’t really my thing; nameless and casual like that. But maybe if I got desperate enough I’d go. I stopped in the empty reception area on my way out and took a look at the board with photos of all the staff members on it. He was right up top—the smile and nod guy was the boss. Chris Bennett, manager. “Hi.” Shit, he was right behind me. I’d been so busy studying the pictures I hadn’t heard him. I tried not to jump three feet in the air. “I think you’re the last out,” he said. I glanced at the clock. It was ten past nine. The place closed at nine. “Sorry.” I’d taken way too long in the shower. “I’ll get out of your hair.” “No rush. You’re a new member, right?” It was a small establishment, I supposed. Most of the members were probably locals. “Yes, just joined.” Oh, snappy comeback. Not. I offered my hand for a shake—or anything else he cared to do with it. “Daniel Goldstein.” “Chris Bennett,” he said, shaking my hand, then gesturing at the photo board. “But you know that.” Did he hold onto my hand a little longer than needed, or was I fantasising? He was smiling at me, and…shit, I was going for it. “Can I buy you a drink, Chris?” He still had a hold of my hand. He looked thoughtful for a second, then he nodded. “I’d like that.” He let go and my arm felt like it would freeze up and crack off when it lost the warmth of his impressively large hand. “I need to lock up. That will take me about ten minutes. Do you know The Queen’s Head?” “Intimately.” Hey, it’s only the literal truth. Any double meanings there are entirely in your head, not mine. “Then I’ll see you there in ten.” He said yes. I’ve still got it. Holy crap, now what? “What can I order for you?” I asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as if I bought hot guys drinks every day. “Diet Coke.” Well, I should have expected that, since he clearly didn’t abuse that body with alcohol. So I smiled and said, “See you soon,” in a painfully awkward attempt to sound casual.