A Rhythm That Works

Back in 2004, we used to work out at his office gym. Three times a week, sometimes four.

We’d each do our own thing—he’d run on the treadmill then bench press, I’d get on the elliptical, sometimes do a Zumba class.

We didn’t talk much during those workouts. But afterward, we’d grab dinner. Something casual. Quick. Wholesome.

There was a rhythm to it. An ease. Presence wrapped in routine.

This morning, after reading my latest essay, he came upstairs and said:

“I think we should start going to the gym together. I’ll come with you. We should get stronger together.”

He wasn’t suggesting I change. He was remembering something good. And offering it back to me.

Maybe that’s the kind of movement I need more of. The quiet companionship kind.

The kind of movement in service of something meaningful to me. That, I think, still fits.