My frequent visits to his occasional gym habitat have paid off in rich abundance; he made his third appearance in just over a week this morning. My attempts to engage him via traditional tribal Gym Dudebro greeting rituals — faux-offhand-doesn’t-mean-anything-I-just-happened-to-be-looking-in-your-direction sub-second eye contact and near imperceptible head twitches of human acknowledgement — have not been returned, so my camouflage game is either totally on fleek or my presence is non-alarming or we-all-know-it’s-not-true-but-I-still-have-to-say-it-in-my-report-in-the-name-of-accurate-anthropology not interesting enough to notice.
Aside from his aloof courting rituals, he exhibits a sophisticated system of characteristics and behaviors for attracting and selecting a suitable mate. His ‘90s-small-town-high-school-wrestler-crenellated-bowl-cut bangs keep potential suitors cautiously at bay, while his habit of wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt reveals a corrugated curtain of abs that are as impossible to tear yourself away from as a Siren’s fabled song.
At this writing, he has retreated into the fogs of the storied Brigadoon from whence he came, but not without a final, beguiling presentation of his eponymous alluring calves to the sparse early-morning population of his occasional gym habitat.
I shall keep vigilant watch — always in super-cute shoes, just in case — for his next appearance.