By Sarah Myrick
I became the other woman on a Tuesday night when he corrected my form for the first time on the squat rack. From then on, it was comic books and awesome new bands and pre-workout drinks—the kind that made us feel like bugs had crawled beneath our skin, leaving us tingling to the point of pain and tainting us with enough caffeine to make a heart beat backwards. From the edges of his shirt, tattoos peeked out—a reckless collection started at seventeen. His brown eyes I could study easier when he started wearing contacts. The way he leaned against my car at one in the morning, staring at the interstate, speaking in what-ifs. But his sense of honor I admired most—the same quality that returned him home to his wife every night, leaving me only with sore muscles and misconstrued innuendos. Today is Tuesday and by the time midnight comes, he will be cuddled up next to his family while I will be lying in bed watching the blades above me chase each other, naked and alone.
