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Martinez

By RickRhymes

For the first time ever, Michonne entered the barbell section of her gym. Feeling unmotivated to run or bike, she looked forward to the thought of trying something new.

It was early still, barely dawn. And only a few faces - all preoccupied - were in the building to notice her fumble through her first time lifting a barbell, which she was grateful for.

There was a single barbell rack. And the bar, loaded with plates, was already hoisted up onto it. She had barely touched it when a man called out to her from the boxing corner.

"Sorry," he apologized, jogging to her. "I left these on here. Didn't even wipe everything down."

"That's okay." She watched him remove his plates and grab a container of sanitary wipes, giving the bar a good once-over.

"Should be good for you now," he said, turning to go back to the punching bags. But something stopped him. "You used these before?"

"No," she admitted.

"I can help get you started if you like," he said, seeming to forget all about what he was doing across the room.

"Yeah. Okay," she agreed, knowing the alternative was looking like a fool trying to give it a go alone.

"Alright. I'm Caesar, by the way," he held out his hand. "My friends call me Martinez."

"I'm Michonne."

Over the next half hour, he gave her some pointers on how to stand, how to hold the bar. Then, he guided her through some basic moves with only the barbell on her back.

All in all, she wasn't sure how she felt about the lifting. But she wasn't hating the company. Martinez was good looking, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a genuine smile. Visually, he was clearly Hispanic, and an accent - while barely perceptible - was definitely there.

During a break, Michonne asked him, "Do you always skip your own work-out to help the newbies?"

She was fishing, but hopefully not being too obvious about it.

"I ought to," he said. "I own the place."

That surprised her, considering he didn't offer that information upfront. It was also mildly disappointing. As the owner, he would have a strictly professional interest in helping his members navigate the landscape of his establishment.

"But," he added. "I mostly just thought you were cute."

Later that morning, over coffee, they talked about work and their backgrounds - she was born and raised in Georgia, he came up from Costa Rica as a child. And everything was going well, until she inquired about why he decided to own a gym, expecting a spiel about a passion for fitness.

Instead, she got: "I want to be the one in charge. Didn't have to be a gym, that's just how it happened. I like being the boss, everyone doing what I say."

And try as she might, Michonne just could not shake her distaste for that, for power-hungry men. Despite their initial chemistry, she realized this was going nowhere.

Oh, well. As the song said, on to the next one...