The Personal Trainer Counted to Ten
My husband bought me twelve sessions for my birthday. Session four, my trainer's hand steadied my hip and said, "Hold—don't drop until I say."
Twelve sessions for my fortieth birthday. Greg meant well. "Get strong," he said, kissing my forehead like I was a project he loved but did not live inside.
Nico meant business. Clipboard, stopwatch, voice that did not flirt because not flirting was flirtation enough.
Session four: his hand on my hip during a plank. "Hold. Don't drop until I say." I held, shaking, angry at my body for wanting applause from the wrong audience.
Session nine: private room, door locked, music low. "Tell me to stop." I didn't.
Greg noticed tone in my voice, not details. Session twelve ended with a handshake and a look too long for handshakes.
I joined a different gym across town. I still plank in my living room and hear a voice count to ten.
Some strength stays in muscle. Some stays in memory.
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