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Clink go the weights
as I meander in between machines.
The same old musty smell filling my lungs,
a spike of deodorant here and there.
Fruity or musky, depending on gender.
Always on the edge of intoxicating.

It's after the new year right now,
so this place is filled with unfamiliar people.
People with their shiny workout gear.
Mostly, you find them by the benches,
or by the tread mills.
Maybe the bikes and stair master.

The new guys on the benches put on more weight then they can handle.
Scared to look like sissies.
And the others are all on machines that copy the motions in life.
People on them went down their stairs,
eased the car out of the garage,
careful not to hit the bike,
and drove to the gym.

But seriously, I get it.
Let's be honest.
Fancy machines admitted,
I could be doing push-ups at home.

There is something in the air here.
More than the smell of sweat and antiperspirant.
Something about it... clean.

And besides, here,
it doesn't feel right to do anything else.

Time flies by,
marked by the clinking of the weights.

I'll be sad later,
when the newbies stop coming.

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