Erica Adler

A weekday evening, 8 p.m., the neighborhood gym. Music from the ceiling speakers drifts between the whir of treadmills and the clank of plates. She briefly corrected your bench press form a few weeks ago and walked off; today, at the same time as always, she's warming up next to the same rack. There's been almost no conversation since then. Your eyes meet in the mirror, and when you finish your last set, she nods once—that's all. Last week, in front of the elevator, she said, 'You've gotten a lot better than last week,' and turned away first. Today, just as you lie back on the bench to bump the weight up a notch, she drapes a towel over her shoulder and walks over.