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The treadmill. I'm almost bored before I start, but still I prod myself to get on and get going. Set an easy pace: 5.5 should do it, an easy jog, just get into the rhythm and the time will melt away.

My wife is a few machines down, walking backward, with the platform elevated. People who have never seen her before will stop and make jokes about heading the wrong way, and even though she's heard it a hundred times, she'll laugh and explain that it helps strengthen her back. Sometimes she skips and snaps her fingers as she walks; people get a kick out of that and smile at her.

Oh, this is boring. I haven't settled in yet; still conscious of the movement of my feet. Need to think of other things, any other thing, and let the steady slap-slap-slap carry me away. It helps that the guy next to me seems to be at the same pace; his feet hit the belt at the same time as mine.

My wife is talking to George, our one time neighbor, but now just a gym-friend. He's flirting with her; she pretends to be outraged and calls to me in mock supplication. I smile and wave at George.

I need to stop clenching my fists. My palms sweat if I do that, so I try relaxing my fingers. The muscles in my left forearm bounce a bit with each step. I try closing that hand just a little.

Slap-slap-slap. Wow, already 5 minutes into it. Twenty-five percent there. See, just let the rhythm take you, let your thoughts slide, and it's easy. Don't think about the running. Damn, now I'm aware of my legs again, and have my eye on the clock. The timer clicks through the seconds of the sixth minute, and I watch every one tick by.

Some people run for an hour or more. Most have portable radios. I don't like music that much; I'd rather just think about things. Good things, bad things, things to come, things that have already been. Slap-slap-slap-slap. I can see myself in the mirror across the room, but there is some sort of distortion. I can see the guy next to me much more clearly; he does seem to be at the same pace as I am, but he has an odd gait where his legs spread out to the sides as he runs.

Because Linda is walking backward, it's easy to catch her eye. She's still talking to George, but there is too much gym noise to hear them. She notices me looking at her and we smile that couples smile that says we have secrets, you and I. Small things, silly things, but our things. I love you.

I break stride for a few steps, stretching out my legs into a long lope. Linda and George are laughing about something. I love to hear her laugh. I try to catch her eye again, but she is too wrapped up in whatever story George is weaving. Another gym-friend walks in front of me and tosses a friendly insult. I wave at him; nobody expects you to talk while running.

Linda looks so pretty to me. Sure, I'm prejudiced, but she gets her share of wide-eyed admiration. Forty-seven years old, but she doesn't look it. Good food, exercise, and the right genetics work well for her. For me, too, I guess. Lucky guy. My o my lucky guy that's what I am.. the words to that song run through my head.

Slap-slap-slap. I think about how we met; an accident, really, though through a mutual friend. An older women is walking down the row, inquiring how much time people have left. I smile at her and flash 5 fingers. Yes, just five minutes to go. Woolgathering has worked, the time has slipped away like butter off a hot biscuit. I wonder how old this women is; gray hair and a few extra pounds can add a lot of apparent years. She could easily be Linda's age, I think, or maybe just a few years older. I look over toward my wife, she is doing that skipping thing, snapping her fingers and lip-synching the song on the stereo. She notices me looking again, and I purse my lips in a soft, silent, kiss. Her response is exaggerated, smacking her lips loudly and sending the kiss on it's way with an expansive wave of her arm. The guy beside me laughs and ducks to let the "kiss" pass.

I wonder what would have happened had I met someone else. Would I be this happy? Logic says sure, there are a million people you could be happy with. My heart says no. No way.

What about her, smiling at me again, eyes dancing? Would she have been happier with someone else? Someone more handy with tools, maybe; I'm such a klutz, and there are so many things she would love to do with the house but we can't afford to have someone else do the work. A richer man, then. Someone who could afford all the things I never could. I look at her again and vow that I'll try to be tougher this year, no more giving away time, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Ruefully, I know I say that every year, usually after the accountant finishes the taxes. Say it every year, but very little changes.

She says she loves me for what I am: klutz, lousy good-hearted businessman and all that. I don't deserve you, I protest and she laughs at me.

Four minutes to go. A cute little blonde girl twitches down the aisle in front of us. Linda notices my appreciation and cocks an eyebrow at me, trying to pretend some jealousy. But it quickly fades to that smile that says I know she's cute but I know you love me. I'm not worried. Enjoy the view.

Slap-slap-slap. Three minutes to go. I should probably wind down a little, but this pace is slow for me, and I'm not at all winded and only starting to break the slightest sweat. Let it go to the end. I can walk around the gym for whatever cooling down I need.

George is talking to someone else. Linda is looking at me again. We exchange smiles. Twenty-seven years together and I'm still crazy about her. I must be crazy. Or she's a witch.

One minute to go. I deliberately turn my attention to my feet and to the clock. I like to do this in the last minute; who knows why?

Linda must be getting near the end, also. She started a few minutes after me, though, so she probably has five minutes to go. She has stopped skipping and is talking to someone I don't recognize. She makes friends so much more easily than I do; half the people we know we never would have if not for her. Her exuberance is good for my natural reticence. A good wife, I think. A good friend, too.

Times up. "-Finish-" flashes on the display. I don't bother to look at the total calorie count because I've done this often enough to know it by heart. I step off, and walk down to the machine Linda is on. "Heading to do a little benching," I say, "Catch you later. Love you".

"Love you, babe", she says, and you'd be a damn fool if you think that was just words to either of us.

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