Two Wheels*

“Do you work here?” I ask the heavily tattooed but otherwise cute young chap fiddling with his smartphone in the gym.  He looks up.

“Yeah,” he says.  That’s quite a tan he’s got: deep caramel. His hair is blond and brown spikes.

“Plenty of machines here,” I say.  “Which is great.  Shame there’s no bikes or…”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says.  “Look.”  

He disappears through the looking glass.  Following him into the mirror, it’s a little tunnel to another room.  I’d never have spotted it.  In this room there’s a running machine, a cross trainer and two bikes.

“We’re going to put some signs up,” gym cutie says.

“You need to,” I say, looking at the magazines on the windowsill.  All South African editions of Glamour, Elle and Vogue dating from October 2014.  Maybe the hotel owners are South African, I think.

“Yeah, people always say they can’t find the cardio equipment,” he says.  “The signs are coming soon.”

Can’t quite place his accent: American from somewhere.  Will ask him later. In a non-flirty way.

“Thank you,” I say.  “I’ll be back after breakfast to use the bike then.”

“See you later,” he says, and winks.

I’m sure he’s like that with everyone, I think.  It’s nice, actually, for once, not to feel the pressure to have a holiday romance.  Gives me more time to rest and relax.  The problem is: I miss my boyfriend.  It’s very relaxing at this tiny boutique hotel though.  Is nice.

Look who is on my bedroom wall (photo attached).

The others have gone for a walk to the beach so am just scribbling this whilst on the bike.

Going for a swim before lunch.  And later cycling round the town on a real bike.

Happy Friday late morning everyone!

*1998.  By Greg Moody.  A cycling murder mystery.