A one-room loft overlooking the old gymnasium. Varnished wood floors and discolored mats rolled against brick walls. I think she and I may have been living together at the time. If so, that was where we were living -- in the loft, overlooking the gymnasium. Every morning we drank espressos, then climbed down the ladder to exercise at the dark end of the gym. There were no machines and few hand weights, so we jumped rope, worked the heavy bag, did push-ups, sit-ups, and a lot of pull-ups. On Tuesdays, we boxed. She worked out wearing only shoes and underwear. Not lingerie -- but that heavy, 100% cotton stuff in white or heather gray. Probably Calvin Klein or Jockey. I guess the whole situation might have struck some as erotic; especially when she broke a sweat and reached up with those arms to tie her hair back, only to have drenched strands fall back over her eyes while she attempted to beat her own record for consecutive pull-ups. (Seventeen.) Afterwards, usually without showering, we would go to a coffee shop and sit for an hour or two drinking more espresso. Sometimes we talked. But usually, we just looked out the window.