The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Skeletons in the Closet

seat of the crunch machine.
    “I know, and thanks. Ballroom in five.” She turned and made her way around various weight machines towards the lobby.
    Crud muffins. I really didn’t want to do calisthenics. A stroll on the treadmill or even the Stairmaster I could deal with, but calisthenics were akin to self-imposed torture. Worse even than the weight machines, since other patrons wanted a shot at those and there was a time limit. Using one’s own body for resistance could go on until the end of time. Given my state of physical fitness and Sylvia’s do or die mood it might.
    Disheartened, I gave the crunch machine a final swipe and trundled in the direction of the ballroom. The ballroom was really a storage studio located in the far corner of the fitness area. Staff and members alike stored a cache of various free weights, balance balls and yoga mats while some of the personal trainers took their clients there for one-on-one instruction, but it usually remained empty. Light shone from beneath the door, and I deduced that the staff hadn’t locked it up for the night. So much for my feeble hope.
    Quit your griping. You need this exercise, my inner critic scolded and I knew it was right. A hopeless klutz, I had no equal and I’d been avoiding any kind of obvious exercise for longer than I could remember. But I’d crossed the hill to the far side of thirty and was losing muscle tone dealing with a slower metabolism.
    People already wondered how I’d snagged a prize stud like Neil—who at almost thirty-seven, looked more like a male underwear model than when I’d married him a decade ago. I didn’t need to add my flabby abs and saggy buns to the grisly picture.
    Resolve firmly duct-taped to the sticking place, I opened the door to the ballroom and almost tripped over my own feet.
    Why did this keep happening to me?
    The room was occupied, all right. The man had his mesh gym shorts tangled around his ankles and all of the bits normally covered were blocked by a big-haired brunette on her knees in front of him. They were making a surprising amount of noise—a soundtrack I would take with me to the grave—and hadn’t noticed my arrival.
    I would have backed away quietly, but froze when I finally caught a glimpse of the man’s features. Hey, next time you see a bottom-less man see if his face is the first place you look.
    Even though I didn’t make a move, the lunatic in my head was running in circles, flapping her arms like a crazed Henny Penny and chanting “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”
    “Hey, I brought the radio from my studio I thought….” I’ll never know what Sylvia thought in that final moment before the sky clobbered her, because she’d caught sight of her husband being serviced in the ballroom.
    Eric and his partner picked up the pace, their rhythm striving for the ultimate crescendo and I wanted to nudge Sylvia into action. If it were me in her shoes, I’d make damn sure he never got to finish, before I started the ritualistic disembowelment. But this was her crisis to deal with as she saw fit.
    Apparently, she needed more time, because she tugged me out the door and closed it soundlessly behind her.
    “Sylvie…,” I started, but any words I offered her would be cold comfort at best.
    “Why isn’t he in his office?” Sylvia asked in an even tone. Her perfect blond eyebrows met at the bridge of her straight nose. “He has an office on the second floor since he made assistant manager. Why the ballroom?”
    “Does it matter?” I asked quietly, enraged both for my friend and with her. Why the hell wasn’t she confronting the faithless S.O.B? I had her back, if she needed moral support, or a wingman for the takedown. I may not be fit, but I could definitely tackle Eric from behind and keep him pinned while she gelded him. Or rip the tramp’s hair out of her feather-headed scalp.
    Sylvia shook her head and stared at the ground. No doubt she was processing, making plans, deciding on the best way to handle the philandering scum-sucking cretin.
    I might have been a tiny bit miffed over the situation, but sometimes going with one’s gut was the best course of action. No amount of consideration would prevent Eric from getting his rocks off, but an accurately thrown ten pound barbell….
    Then, it was too late. Eric opened the door and I caught a glimpse of the dark-haired woman stuffing her mega boobs back into her jog bra and casting him a disbelieving look for his obvious