M. Colette - Tell Me

No one wants to do much of anything in the short hour or two of the morning before I have to bundle the kids into the car to drop them off at school. They just chill. I consider it an ultimate test of character not to check Facebook.

It causes me physical pain.

I drop the elder three at school and Annie at my mom’s for the morning, and then head off to the gym. If I was a woman nearing 40 somewhere sexy like New York City, say, I’d probably have a therapist. But I’m a skiing Calgarian so I have a personal trainer. Also a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. And a massage therapist. Winter sports kill the spine…and our tendency to drive SUVs and mega-trucks any distances over 0.6 kilometres when we’re not on the hills means we need fucking treadmills to get exercise.

There really is no hope for humanity, I think as I careen down one overpass, then another. It’s my usual think as I drive to the gym. That if I just went for a (free) bike ride, (free) run or did some real physical work – chopped wood, I don’t know, laid some bricks or something – I’d achieve the same result in a less self-centred, narcissistic environment.

I keep on getting distracted from my self-inflicted lecture by imagining Matt’s tongue between my thighs.

Fuck. Focus.

I park. Wave to Jesse as I run to the changing room. Jesse. My trainer. The very very very junior fourth partner, as he puts it, in a very clean, very bright, very Zen gym, filled with inspirational quotes and a dizzying array of equipment. The gym runs classes, sells memberships and all that other stuff, but its real draw is the personal training services – or just going to the gym to ogle the trainers. The personal trainers, male and female, look like Greek – in one case, Nubian – gods.

Mine is, not to put too much of a point on it, the prettiest. He was a gift from Alex for my birthday a couple of years ago.

‘So I saw Nicola yesterday,’ he says as he loads up weights for me. I stare at him blankly. What the fuck is he talking about. Nicola? Nicola! Who is Nicola?

Not important. What’s important is how you will look in those fuck-me heels when we meet.

—Go away. Not in my head. Not now.

I know Nicola. Jesse knows Nicola. I introduced Nicola to Jesse, actually. Before the gong-show of a divorce, when her own struggle with careening towards 40 resulted in a fitness-must-lose-weight-and-look-hotter craze. I don’t judge: I don’t come to Jesse because it’s fun or because I enjoy exercise. I too have no desire to be a fat, frumpy middle-aged woman who wears yoga pants because they’re more forgiving than jeans. Regardless. Jesus, what is happening in my head? Narcissistic bitch, snap out of it. He’s talking about Nicola. I need to listen. ‘She told me about, you know, her situation. She said you knew,’ Jesse says. He blushes slightly.

I nod. I’m fond of Jesse. He’s beautiful and has a nice voice, and is ridiculously young. Chronologically, he’s 26, and half the time – when he’s doing his job and telling me what to do – he’s older than his birth age, confident, in control, in charge. And the other half – when he moves on to any other ground – he’s so very, very young. And awkward. And so unaware of life.

Sometimes, I think he might be gay – the question’s never been asked and answered, because, when I’m with him, he makes me lift heavy shit and I scream and grunt and pant and so there is not much room for conversation. I infer his potential homosexuality purely from the fact that although he is built like an Adonis and eminently fuckable – when Alex introduced me to him, I cooed that other men buy their wives flowers and chocolate and my beloved got me a ripped boy toy – he comes across as very, very…safe. He gropes and prods and readjusts me – and his dozens-upon-dozens of other female clients – fairly thoroughly. It never feels inappropriate, or edgy. I sweat with him two or three times a week, and I’ve committed no thought crime with him, no matter how ardent my mood is otherwise. He’s that safe. So safe, I’ve pondered setting him up with my neighbour’s seventeen-year-old daughter…except for that he-might-be-gay thing. We’ve all got to go through our gay lovers – I’ve had two – but it really sucks if the gay boy’s your first one. A little disheartening.

‘I’m just so shocked,’ Jesse says. I nod and grunt. Lift up. Hold. Drop down. ‘Have you met her husband?’

‘Y…e…s,’ I exhale. ‘Total dork. Even before he became a cheating rat-fuck bastard.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to be so…’ Jesse pauses.

‘Offensive?’ I offer as I gasp.

‘Blunt,’ Jesse says. ‘But yes. Not exactly a Don Juan. I wouldn’t have thought…have you seen the pictures of the girlfriend?’

‘The naked pictures?’ I get out between lifts. ‘No. I managed to avoid that. I guess you didn’t.’

‘Nicola showed me,’ Jesse says.

‘Skanky?’ I ask. Jesse is shocked. His Puritanism and youth come out at the most unexpected times. He’s shocked – that I said skank. He’s shocked that Nicola and her dorky husband are divorcing because of his torrid affair with a skanky but sufficiently attractive, to Nicola’s ex at least (‘If you like that type’ – that’s Nicola’s voice providing commentary in the background), intern. He’s shocked the dorky husband was fucking the attractive skank. He might be shocked people in their 30s and 40s, and those really old 50-year-olds sweating on the ellipticals over there, have sex. Dirty thoughts.

I’m not quite 40 yet. But it’s less than two years away. And Matt…is Matt 40 now? He’s got to be. Maybe even 41.

‘Hey, Jesse,’ I ask. ‘How old do you think I am?’

He pauses. Yes, it’s a test. I asked him how old he was a few months ago. I thought 28 – he was 26. My two-year misjudgement didn’t matter. But he really can’t win with me, I realise. If he says 40, I’ll throw the barbell at him. If he says 36, who gives a crap? What’s two years less? I catch the thought and stare it in the face. It’s never ever bothered me that I’m now 38. Four kids. Soft, loose breasts, stretched skin on the belly. That’s all part of me, of what I am. Am I anxious about my age? Am I having a mid-life crisis? A stupid fucking mid-life crisis that’s making me easy fodder for a manipulative fuck like Matt who clearly is having a mid-life crisis of his own, much like Nicola’s husband was having when he started fucking the skank? Except, instead of looking for something new, he comes looking for me, because he knows…

Fuck.

Selfish, evil bastard.

I am so not going to see him on December 14.

‘I’ve never thought about it,’ he says. And I think, clever boy, that’s the right answer. But he plods on. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I know your oldest girl is ten. So…you must be…you must be thirty-something, like at least thirty-two? Maybe even thirty-four?’

I stop listening. I don’t really hear. I’m away again. Teeth marks on my neck. My thighs. Oh, fuck. Where was I? What were we talking about?

‘But she seems to be coping OK.’ Jesse returns to Nicola. ‘I mean, she’s angry and all that. But I think she’ll be OK.’

She’d probably be a hell of a lot better if you sort of accidentally-on-purpose patted her ass after her workout session, I think. Don’t say out loud. Slap myself mentally. Feel Matt’s breath on the back of my neck…

‘She’s tough,’ I say. ‘And really…well. The only really shocking thing here is that he left her . Well, OK, not exactly left her. What he wanted to do was to fuck the skank and to stay married. And she didn’t. So she’s the one who asked for a divorce. But what I mean is – we all kind of expected her to lose her patience with him somewhere along the line without the illicit sex, you know? Cause he was – you know, a dork.’