They come in flocks this month, more of them than the machines can hold, and I love the crowding of it. New shoes, still white at the sole. The little paper waivers signed at the desk, the pen chained down as if anyone would steal it. A woman I don't know sets her phone against the mirror and studies herself lifting a small weight, unsatisfied, when what I can see is the whole miracle of her shoulder doing the thing shoulders do without being asked.
They hate it here. I can tell. The one on the treadmill keeps checking the number, willing it higher, sweat stinging his eyes, jaw set like the minutes owe him something. He would give anything to be done. And I would give anything to be him, salt in the eyes, lungs burning, legs heavy as wet rope, the specific dull agony of a body that is present and complaining and alive.
There is a boy struggling with a bar too heavy for him, and an older man drifts over, uninvited, and puts two fingers under it, just enough. They don't speak. The bar goes up. The old man walks away. Neither of them will remember this by Friday. I will keep it forever.
By March most of these shoes will be at the back of a closet, and the machines will breathe easy again, and everyone will feel a little guilty. Don't. You came. You were warm and winded and here, in a bright room full of strangers, hauling your one good body up and down for no reason but to keep it. Go home sore tonight. Let someone touch your tired shoulders.
Sleep hard.