For the past four months, since the beginning of their affair, she had exercised every day. Though Jean-Pierre had been the one to suggest the calisthenics, she had become obsessed with her daily workout and needed no encouragement to get on her cycle and go every morning. With each strained breath she pictured herself becoming more slender, more youthful, more attractive and beautiful and sexy for him.
Clad in undershorts, Jean-Pierre stood combing his long hair before Matthew's bureau mirror. He swung his head back, collected his mane with both hands behind his head, and worked an elastic band over the ponytail.
Greta tugged off her headband and playfully pulled it over his head. "Now you look like an Indian."
He smiled and tugged the band off. As he reached for his shirt hanging on the bedpost, she grabbed his wrist and roughly pulled him beside her on the bed. She flattened his hand against her chest, his middle finger settled over the horseshoe charm he had given her. "Are you an Indian giver?" she said suggestively, moving his hand from the charm to her breast.
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. When her grip loosened he stepped back and stood before her with his hands on her hips. "Greta," he warned her, "I must get ready. I have a nine o'clock lesson, and already I am going to be late."
She stretched, "Okay, okay, no pow-wow for now."
"Besides, darling," he said to her reflection in the mirror, "you too have a busy day ahead of you."
"Yes, yes, I know," she said with an unpleasant expression. "I'll call as soon as I get out of the shower."
He sat beside her, boots in hand. "Maybe you should call now," he said, "so I can be here with you."
"After the shower. I promise." She stood and unzipped her athletic top.