My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

4.

I’m huddled in the small lounge area of the women’s locker room with a few other members, all of us confined indoors because of the teeming rain outside. Sometimes in LA, entire winters can pass with little or no meaningful precipitation, but this is not one of those years. It’s poured for six of the last eight days, setting new rainfall records.

Amazon Lady is there as usual, along with Patch, Dame Donut, Jill, and a middle-aged woman I’ve taken to calling Effy because she drops so many F-bombs. It’s the last thing you’d expect, given her coy demeanor. Tidy and clean-cut, with tightly styled gray hair, a little upturned nose, and a sweet smile, she is the picture of all-American wholesomeness. But the expletives that gush from this innocent-looking woman like lava from a volcano are anything but genteel. Right now, Effy is regaling us with a story about how her husband overreacted when she went out of town for a girls’ weekend, leaving him on his own.

“I don’t know why he falls apart when I go away for a couple of days,” she says.

“Maybe he misses having home-cooked meals,” says Patch.

“Are you fucking kidding me? He does all the cooking around our house. And when I’m there, he hardly even notices me, he’s so busy watching every sports program on TV. Football, basketball, golf . . . bowling, for Christ’s sake. I didn’t give him sex for two months, and he never noticed that either.”

We nod solemnly at this.

“Not that it’s a big deal whether we do or don’t. I mean, when we do get it on, you could measure the whole thing from start to finish on an egg timer.”

This elicits gales of laughter from the group, but Effy’s is the loudest of all. For someone with such a tiny nose, she has an unexpectedly nasal voice, and when she laughs, it comes out as a gooselike honk.

“I take it he survived your absence?” I ask.

“Oh, hell yeah. But the house barely survived. When I got home, the place looked like a fricking crime scene.” More laughter. “We’re talking books and magazines all over the floor, open drawers with clothes hanging out, dirty dishes in the sink, toilets not flushed . . . the place stank like an elephant enclosure at the zoo.”

“It must’ve made you crazy to come back to such a mess,” says Dame Donut, absently scratching her ring of waistline flab. “I bet you had to summon all your professional skills to straighten things out.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Judith is an organizational specialist,” Patch says.

Effy—Judith—turns to me and grins. “I help people sort out their shit.”

“Sounds unpleasant,” I say.

Judith snickers at this. “I consult with clients on how to declutter homes and offices, and I re-design closets and shelves, stuff like that.”

I flash on a brief image of my chaotic apartment, where file folders and magazines are scattered across my office and unpacked boxes are piled in every available space.

“Are you withholding sex in punishment?” asks Amazon Lady with a wry smile.

“Ha-ha,” Judith says. “Not that it’s anyone’s business, but we shared three minutes of intimacy last night during a commercial break from the national miniature golf championship. Afterward, he pissed and moaned about how lonely he’s been while I was away.”

“Men are such crybabies,” Amazon Lady says.

“Amen to that,” Dame Donut agrees.

Patch grunts in agreement, but I say nothing. I don’t want to open the door to a conversation about my solitary domestic status and the rapturous relationship between Henry and Alice. I take a swig from my disposable water bottle.

“Is that alkaline water?” asks Effy, eying the label with suspicion.

I nod. “I used to get heartburn, but not since I started drinking this.”

“It’s a rip-off. Four bucks for that thing; are you kidding me? You can make any water alkaline by adding lemon juice.”

“I’ve tried that. The lemon gives me sour stomach,” I say, my tone defensive.

“Oh hon, forget it. Let’s not argue over some crap bottle of water, right?” She winks at me and all is forgiven. This woman tickles my funny bone.

I head upstairs to the cardio equipment room. I don’t have a lot of time to work out today – I’m scheduled for a rare lunch with my son Michael – but I squeeze in thirty minutes on the elliptical trainer, enough to work up a good sweat.

It’s been unusually busy at the club this week. The rain has driven all the walkers, joggers, and tennis players indoors for their exercise. Striding on the machine next to me is Sexy Eyes. Most likely in his early fifties, he is tall and nice-looking, with strong, pleasing features – particularly his long-lashed, gray eyes, which are a standout. I’ve always been a pushover for a nice pair of eyes. Henry was never a handsome man, but one long, soulful gaze from his deep-set, nearly black eyes was enough to reel me in.

I usually think of gray as a cool color (is it even considered a color at all?), but the gray eyes of my new gym acquaintance are warm and intelligent – eyes I could dreamily gaze into given half a chance. I’ve seen him around the club a few times, though he’s never spoken to me . . . until now, when he steps off the treadmill, wipes his head and neck with a towel, smiles, and says, “Try to keep dry,” before walking away.

Is he commenting on the pelting rain outside? Or, heaven forbid, on my perspiring brow?