PART 1

NEVER SKIP LEG DAY

1

He always woke up thirty minutes before her. He liked to watch and tease her, gently stroking her earlobe until she grunted to let her sleep, while she shooed his hand away like an annoying fly on a hot summer's day.

She had a few idiosyncrasies that he found irresistible. Twitches: sometimes small, micro-movements of her lips, eyebrows, or fingers, and sometimes full-body eruptions that indicate her adventurous dreams.

Another peculiarity was her need for constant pressure on her body while sleeping or cuddling. If they were watching a movie, she would find the tightest spot between him and the couch and squeeze in.

While sleeping, she liked to have at least one of his arms or legs wrapped around her. She was even happier when half of his body was on top of her, pressing her gently down into the memory foam. It is to be mentioned that Ronny was a bodybuilder. 136 kilograms during competition, off-season he grew to a stately 150.

Alexa grew up with Sherpa, a 25 kilogram Bernese mountain dog, who made an emotional imprint on her. Ronny was flipping through her children's album and came across a photo of Alexa and Sherpa sprawled under the kitchen table. Alexa had a big grin on her face as the gentle giant covered eighty percent of her seven-year-old body. Ronny understood right then and there: she went from one big dog to another, and the pressure is the gateway to familiarity and safety. The pressure she couldn't handle, however, came last summer in the form of an 18-wheeler.

2

Ron got the call from Sacred Hearts Hospital during his Wednesday morning workout, aka leg day. Where others hated leg day because it was the most painful, vomit-inducing, and mentally challenging workout, Ron loved it. He believed that not only did his legs look like advertising pillars because of the effort he put in on those days, but that every muscle in his body benefited from the squats, deadlifts, leg presses, and leg extensions. And looking at him, he might have been right. On Wednesdays he did not walk out of the gym. It looked like a cross between shitting your pants and stiff limb syndrome. 

The aforementioned call from the hospital came during a particularly gruesome set of deadlifts, which interrupted Ron's playlist and caused him to lose focus for a moment during the lift and forcing him to drop the weight.

"Who the hell!" he waddled over to a bench, grabbed his water bottle, looked at the phone and pressed the right earbud to accept the call. He listened for a few seconds, not believing what he heard, and when he realized what really happened, he froze. A long moment in which the water bottle slipped out of his hand and tumble-fell to the ground. The thud it made when it hit the floor woke Ron from his stupor. No one in the gym recognized the gravity of the situation, they all grinned and made fun of the huge guy who was awkwardly pushing people left and right on his way to the exit. 

3

Ron pushed the door open, and the people in the waiting room of Sacred Heart Hospital must have thought their time had come. He stood in the doorway, huffing and puffing, ready to blow away the three pigs' house. He wore purple hammer pants and a worn-out tank top sporting the Gorilla Wear insignia. Tank top might have been an exaggeration, the shirt shrunk under his immense mass to the size of a spaghetti top. It was so small that the hem ended just above Ron's navel, revealing the deep cuts between his abs. People looked in awe at his extensive pecs, his huge biceps, and the mountain range of shoulders. Sweat poured from his forehead and ran down his tanned skin. Skin so thin you could see every muscle fiber. Veins as thick as Twizzlers popping out all over his torso; in short, he looked freakish. It was so much damn muscle it made no sense.

"Can I help you?" The head nurse at the check-in desk broke the awkward silence.

"My wife... My wife had an accident. Her name is Alexa ... Alexa Herrington."

All the nurses at the desk turned their heads at the same time and looked at Ron. Ron looked around and saw the janitor, broom in hand, standing over a puddle of what must have been blood. It definitely was blood. The janitor met Ron's gaze and looked down timidly, sweeping in broad strokes. The floor was his canvas, and his art resembled the pour paintings of Hermann Nitsch. 

The head nurse picked up the phone from the desk, never taking her eyes off Ron. "Dr. Sweeny ... yes ... the husband is here."

"Please have a seat, Mr. Herrington." Dr. Sweeney was a short woman. She walked around her desk and climbed into her office chair. The foam cushion that was supposed to raise her a few centimeters above the table was a bitch, as usual. It slipped a little, but with the ease of an experienced mountain climber, she made it to the top. Exhausted she rested her elbows on the table, placed both index fingers on her temples, and began circular motions to massage away the oncoming migraine.

"Where is my wife? What's going on?" Ron said, still standing, still panting, still sweating.

Dr. Sweeney lifted her head to look at Ron. The moment their eyes met dragged on like gum on the sole of a shoe on hot concrete. Sweeney gauged Ron. Who could blame her? After all, she knew what testosterone did to the human body: it regulated sex drive, muscle mass, and sperm production, among other things. She also knew that high levels led to mood swings and aggressive behavior. And the behemoth in front of her seemed loaded.

"Your wife had an accident." She began cautiously, "Thanks to the quick actions of the paramedics, we were able to stabilize her. But..." Sweeney paused, and increased the pressure on her temples.

"I. Want. To. See. My. Wife." Ron's face was in flames, tomato red. He turned to the door. "This is bullshit, I'm going to find her and..."

"Your wife is dying."

Ron stopped and turned around in fright. The red in his face was gone and pale white, Casper-the-friendly-ghost-white. "I want to see her." He heard himself say, but did not recognize the frail voice. He looked no longer dangerous to Sweeney. Ron felt like the time he lost his mama in one of those big department stores. Can the mother of seven-year-old Ronny please come to the housewares? He would like to be picked up. But this time, no one showed up.