Chapter 5

By the time you and your wife settle into bed that evening, Grudge has become something of a private joke between you. His name has surfaced several times throughout the evening, usually accompanied by one of your wife's exaggerated expressions of disgust or another observation about the peculiar collection of rumors surrounding him.

You have discussed his motorcycle, his prison record, his ridiculous advertisement for personal training, and the remarkable amount of attention he apparently attracts without making the slightest effort to be pleasant. You have even suggested that the gym ought to charge admission for the opportunity to observe such a fascinating specimen.

Your wife laughed at that, although she was quick to remind you that there was nothing particularly fascinating about a rude, oversized Neanderthal. Now, as she sits against the headboard applying lotion to her hands, you find yourself wondering whether the subject will arise again. It does, although not quite as you expect.

"Can you imagine what he'd be like as a personal trainer?" she asks, setting the lotion on her nightstand. "I mean, seriously. What would he even say to somebody?" You suggest that his approach probably involves a great deal of shouting, an occasional insult, and the threat of bodily harm whenever someone fails to complete a repetition.

She laughs and agrees that this sounds entirely plausible. She then adopts a deliberately deep voice and attempts an impression of Grudge ordering an unfortunate client to stop complaining and lift something heavier. Her performance is so absurd that you both begin laughing, and for several minutes the enormous stranger becomes the subject of increasingly ridiculous speculation.

Your wife imagines him conducting a yoga class, his tattooed arms folded across his chest while a roomful of terrified students struggles to follow his instructions. You suggest that he might specialize in motivational speeches, although his particular vocabulary would probably prevent him from being invited to speak at respectable establishments.

She laughs so hard that she has to wipe her eyes, then declares that she would pay good money to see him attempt to teach a beginner's aerobics class. Eventually, the laughter subsides, leaving the two of you lying comfortably beside each other in the warm pool of light from the bedside lamp.

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "I still can't believe he actually said those things to me." You turn toward her. She is looking at the ceiling, her expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "I've had men flirt with me before, obviously. But nobody has ever been that crude. Not even close."

You tell her that Grudge apparently has a unique understanding of courtship. She smiles. "Apparently his idea of flirting is insulting somebody until they either slap him or fuck him." You suggest that perhaps he considers both outcomes equally entertaining. "Probably." She falls quiet, then turns her head toward you.

"Do you think he talks to every woman that way?" You consider the question. You have no way of knowing, of course, but you suggest that a man who behaves so outrageously toward a complete stranger probably doesn't reserve his manners for special occasions. Your wife nods, although she does not seem entirely convinced.

She grows thoughtful again. "Maybe that's why he's so obnoxious. Maybe he doesn't know how to talk to women at all." You point out that his behavior sounds less like social awkwardness than deliberate provocation. "Well, whatever it is, it's disgusting." She says this firmly, although there is a faint smile on her lips.

You reach across the bed and switch off the lamp. The room settles into darkness, illuminated only by the pale glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. Your wife moves closer, resting her head against your shoulder, and you slip an arm around her. For several minutes, you lie together without speaking.

Then she begins laughing softly. You ask what is so funny. "Nothing. I was just thinking about that stupid flyer." You smile into the darkness. She wonders whether anyone will actually call the number. You suggest that somebody probably will, eventually, if only because Grudge looks as though he knows his way around a weight room.

She concedes the point, then remarks that whoever hires him will certainly get more than the ordinary personal-training experience. You suggest that his clients probably leave every session either in excellent physical condition or in need of professional counseling. She laughs again, and you feel her shoulders relax against you.

The conversation has become unexpectedly intimate. Grudge is no longer merely the unpleasant stranger who embarrassed her at the gym. He has become a shared subject of amusement, a figure so exaggerated in your imaginations that discussing him feels almost like exchanging a private joke. Neither of you has acknowledged the more complicated feelings beneath that amusement, but you have discovered that talking about him is strangely enjoyable.

Your wife turns toward you and rests a hand against your chest. "You're not jealous, are you?" The question catches you off guard. You ask why you would be jealous of a man she has spent two days describing as disgusting. "Well, I don't know. Some husbands would probably get all territorial about another man talking to their wife like that."

You tell her that you trust her, and that Grudge's behavior says considerably more about him than it does about her. She seems pleased by the answer. "Good," she whispers. "Because you have absolutely nothing to worry about." She leans forward and kisses you.