We were stretching out, having finished our run near a beachside exercise park. Nothing state-of-the-art, but a number of locals thought it beat paying gym dues.
The breeze was just enough to cool us down, without chilling the evening air.
“Going out later?” I asked Júlia. She was a good training partner — not too chatty and a little faster than me, which kept me on my toes.
“Nah. I’ll probably polish off last night’s Priorat and thumb through Tinder.”
“How goes the hunt?” I leaned into an IT stretch, relishing the rippling rear view of a shirtless guy who was super-setting pull-ups. My hip popped and I involuntarily grunted, “Aye, fuck me.”
“Maybe I’d be luckier with that profile,” she said, pulling her left ankle into such an effortless standing bow that the lesser me sort of wanted to push her over. “I ask for three simple things.”
Be fit. Be vegan. Be straight.
Pull-up guy had been wiping his pits with his shirt before putting it back on. “Prince Charming, six o’clock. Is classy a deal breaker?”
His sleeveless tee read …
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” She flicked back her ponytail, sauntering towards tonight’s contestant.