Dear woman who currently is restocking the towels while I stand here naked drying myself,
Como estas, como te llamas? Shit. My knowledge of Spanish ends here. Trailing off like my good intentions of one day maybe speaking to you like a human being instead of shyly glancing past you like another piece of weight-lifting equipment, embarrassed by the stark contrast of our situations. I have so many questions. Do they pay you well here? At this beautifully appointed club where we members pay a small monthly fortune to tone our bodies with “work” so we can stave off the heart disease and diabetes that will surely threaten you in your 5o’s after you’ve spent years bending on your knees to wipe up our sweat. Do they at least offer you a chance to ride that spin bike you’ve polished to a gleam? Maybe on your day off? Would you welcome my interest or are my questions merely an impertinence, one more imposition demanded by the privileged of those we crush? Soothe our consciences and press the button on the damn steam room again so we don’t have to rise from our languid sweat to do it ourselves.
Maybe I’ll go paste that in Google Translate.