I first noticed her in September on the middle treadmill in the row, the one facing the windows — incline cranked to maximum, walking slowly. She was in her mid-forties and it looked good on her: the spots across her shoulders gone faint and scattered with age, the blonde ponytail still thick, her eyes drifting about as she did the same workout every day.

I thought it was strange — never a run or a jog, just a slow, steady uphill walk each time, on the exact same treadmill. That time I happened to be jogging in the row behind when she arrived and started her hike.

I glanced up and quietly admired her before looking away politely, but this time she reached back without thinking and palmed one glute, then the other, thumbs pressing slow circles into the muscle, hands sliding down the outside of her thighs and kneading back up — for a minute, two, sometimes the length of a song, before her arms dropped and she walked on like nothing happened. I imagined the burn of her uphill climb as it slowly toned her curves with each workout, and maybe my own hands on those hips, massaging her tight muscles, her soft downy cheeks in my palms.

My treadmill slowed, "workout complete" flashing on the screen. I figured an extra-long cool-down was needed — my eyes drifting back to her hands gently squeezing — and maybe a cold shower afterwards.