The Midnight Gym
Every night at 7:30 PM, the ritual is the same. I pack my duffel bag with a towel, a water bottle, and a change of clothes. My wife, Lisa, watches me from the couch with a look of admiration. She touches my arm and tells me how proud she is of my discipline, how much she loves that I take care of myself. She thinks I go to the gym for two hours to lift weights and run miles. She praises my dedication.
She doesn't know that the membership card in my wallet expired years ago. I haven't lifted a weight or stepped on a treadmill in 8 years. My "fitness" is just a naturally high metabolism and the weight of a guilt so heavy it burns more calories than a marathon.
"The smell of the gym is sweat and rubber. The smell of my evenings is antiseptic and floor wax."
I drive past the fitness center and keep going for another three miles until I reach the county hospital. I park in the same spot on the fourth floor of the garage. I walk past the nurses' station where they all know me by name. I don't go there to get healthy; I go there to repent.
Room 402 is always quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor. I sit in the uncomfortable vinyl chair next to the bed and hold the hand of a woman who hasn't squeezed back in nearly a decade. She is my first love. We were in the car together the night of the accident. I was driving. I walked away with scratches; she never woke up. She has been in a coma since 2016.
Before I go home to my wife, I go to the hospital bathroom. I splash water on my face and shirt to make it look like sweat. I mess up my hair. Then I go home, kiss my wife, and accept her praise for being such a strong man, while inside, I am the weakest person on earth, living two lives and belonging to neither.
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