The Manager

Jenn had no idea why gyms were designed with so many mirrors. Did people really enjoy watching themselves sweat? All it did for her was provide ten different angles of her own bright pink thong clad ass, bare for anyone and everyone to see.

The girl jogging two treadmills over slowed to a stunned walk, ponytail swinging as her eyes bulged. A man with headphones on the rowing machine actually pulled one earbud out, muttering, “Oh damn.” An older woman in neon spandex stopped mid-bicep curl, openly gawking. Even the receptionist at the front desk was craning her neck to see what the commotion was.

Jenn, face blazing scarlet, scrambled to cover herself with her hands, which was laughably useless. Her leggings were still twisted in the treadmill’s belt, stretched taut like a flag on display.

The gym manager, a thicker built woman in her forties named Rhonda who ran the gym like the navy, ran over and hit the emergency stop button on the treadmill. The machine shuddered to silence, showing the pants tangled in the gears of the machine.