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Impossible,I think. Impossible to know, impossible to want, impossible to have.
‘You’re needed in the back.’ I swallow and nod towards the counter. ‘Dylan’s been trying to get your attention.’
She’s not the only one.
27
what’s the least sexy sport and why is it bouldering?
A V A
We’ll get on ifyou’re active, adventurous and outdoorsy.
I am not active, adventurous or outdoorsy. This has never been something of particular significance in my life, until I got in the habit of lying.
When the automatic doors open from the changing room at Brixton Leisure Centre, I’m treated to a solid mass of sensory overload; the smell of both stale and fresh sweat, the air warmer and muggier than I’d like, and dubstep pounding through the speakers, punctuated by squeaks and bangs as people scamper up walls and drop onto mats.
‘Ava, over here!’ a booming voice yells from the far side of the room, at a clarity and volume I can only express as “musical theatre”.
Every man from his mid-twenties onwards has his kryptonite; some physical activity to base his entire personality around. For Jacob-from-Hinge, it’s climbing. For a multitude of reasons this is not a particularly sexy sport; the bendy shoes, the scurrying movement, the little tippy tap at the top of the wall.
I watch Jacob perform the aforementioned tippy tap, ugly shoes providing him with ample grip. I swallow.Be nice.When he catches my eye and grins from the top of the wall like a pirate atop his mast, I’m comforted to find he has a nice smile. I make my way over and reach him just as he touches the ground.
‘So good to meet you, thanks for coming,’ he says, bending down to lean in for a quick, sweaty hug that I pretend isn’t gross.
‘Thanks for inviting me!’ I respond, channelling my most easygoing self. His dark blonde hair is half tied back in a messy bun and I mentally run through a checklist to make sure he is as he seemed online. Sweaty physical contact aside, so far so good. Now it’s on me to be, well, not me.
‘This wasn’t exactly my plan for us this morning, but I was asked last-minute to teach a beginners’ class to a group of summer school kids. But I’m really glad you’re here—it’ll be good to have another adult here to help show the students how it all works.’
‘No worries,’ I say. There are, in fact, plenty of worries. ‘I’ve, uh, injured my ankle a bit though, by the way. It’s fine, mostly, but I just won’t be able to do anything super intense.’
If I were smart, I’d have said it was my wrist. But I am, demonstrably, not smart.
‘Oh, that sucks,’ his expression is comically sad. ‘Just do as much as you’re comfortable with. And we can head to the café after, if you’d like, to chat properly?’
‘Sounds good,’ I say with an uncharacteristic thumbs up. I realise I may now need to limp slightly for this whole session. Thumbsdown.
He claps his hands together and addresses the group of teenagers milling around us.
‘Alright everyone, it’s time to climb!’ I wonder if he’s going to rhyme for the whole session.‘Climbing is about care, coordinationand concentration.’ Apparently he does alliteration too. A GCSE English paper come to life. ‘My friend Ava is here to help today in an unofficial capacity, so if I’m busy and you have questions, just ask her.’
I spend the next fifty minutes roaming the room, refilling my water bottle, tapping the wall and doing nondescript stretches that I hope make me look professional. I successfully avoid answering any questions from the youths and make it to almost the very end of the session before being pulled onto the wall. Predictably, it does not go well. I blame my “hurt ankle”.
By the end of the hour I’m a sweaty mess. No one else is as much of a sweaty mess as I am, but then, no one else has the upper-body strength of a worm. I make a mental note to stop lying. Or, like, to do it a little less, at least.
Most of the students have left by the time I muster the energy to approach Jacob. He’s talking to some fellow climbers, and his face lights up when he sees me. I wait for the others to turn away before I say anything.
‘You were amazing.’ The compliment catches in my mouth on its way out. I try again. ‘Honestly, I’msojealous. But I’m gonna go grab my stuff from the changing room—meet you in the café in ten minutes?’
‘Absolutely. Man, I was so busy I didn’t even get a chance to watch you climb.’ The cartoonish sad face returns. ‘Next time, for sure.’
‘For sure,’ I agree, walking away.
As sweat trickles down my back, I realise I definitely need to rinse off, so I collect a towel from the dispenser and head towards the showers. I laboriously remove every layer stuck to my sweaty skin, before shoving them into my tote bag hanging on its hook. As the water runs over me in my tiny stall and I try not to gag everytime my skin touches the freezing tiles, I think about Jacob. He seems friendly, polite andsweet. And so far, I think I’ve done an incredible impersonation of someone who is also friendly, polite and sweet.
I’m too distracted by my own smugness to pay much attention to the obnoxiously loud noise that starts up from the main changing area. They should really fix that. If it were a real alarm, it’d be blasting through the shower room too.
But then the alarm begins to blare in the shower area too, and a voice yells, ‘Showers off, everyone out, this is an emergency fire evacuation!’
