January had been bitterly cold, and the beginning of February did not bode well for a speedy end to winter. Sunday February fifth was clear but frigid, and Zaki could see his breath as he jogged back to his apartment from the gym in the early morning sun. The narrow, crowded lanes of Chinatown made for a lot of starts and stops, but after a few twists and turns and a final sprint across several congested lanes of traffic, he was on the upward sloping ramp of the Manhattan Bridge. In this weather and at this hour of the morning few pedestrians were out and about, so he could really run.
Aside from being a starkly beautiful winter day, it was Super Bowl Sunday, and Zaki was psyched. The lineup was interesting, for starters: the Dallas Cowboys versus the New York Jets. Zaki — or Zak, as most of his friends called him — was born and raised in Brooklyn and was a life-long Jets fan. He was excited to see his team come this far. As his buddies constantly reminded him, it had been almost fifty years since their last Super Bowl championship in 1969. It was going to be a good one, and he was looking forward to hosting a few friends at his place for what promised to be a memorable game.
But Zaki was looking forward to the feast that he was planning to have almost as much as the game itself. He was a big guy, and he ate unabashedly like one. The early morning trip to the gym and the jog over the bridge would only augment his healthy appetite, and he was already thinking of the snacks he would be enjoying come four o'clock when his crew came over. He enjoyed nothing more than an intense workout followed by a large meal: he loved the satisfaction of sitting back and eating like a king, and the physical exertion made him feel like he deserved it.
Zak was tall but also stocky. In high school he had played football and wrestled, developing the sort of burly thickness over time that comes from having grappled with other large men on a regular basis. Zak's father, who had immigrated to the US from Lebanon when he was a teenager, had pushed his son to be the all-American high school jock that he never was, and Zak had excelled. Zak didn't pursue professional sports after high school but had still played for fun in college on intramural teams. Since graduating and taking on a full time job, he continued with recreational sports, managing to keep his physique into his early 30s. His latest obsession was rugby, which he had taken up the previous year at the suggestion of a friend. His bulky build was ideal for the sport and his rigorous training schedule allowed him to eat pretty much whatever he wanted.
The other aspect of rugby he loved was the team's after-practice bar crawls. He had been fully participating in these and had developed a firm but decidedly round beer belly to show for it. His gut was starting to jut out over his belt, pants no longer fitting as loosely as before.
Turning off the pedestrian path onto a side street, Zak made his way through the edge of downtown Brooklyn and into the tree-lined streets of Fort Greene. He passed several blocks flanked by rows of brownstones and sleepy corner stores until he reached the front of his building. Jogging in place, he fished a set of keys out of his pocket and pushed through the front door. Just two flights he said to himself as he ascended the staircase and reached his front door.
Arturo, Zak's boyfriend, was already up and on his second mug of coffee by the time the runner pushed open the front door and panted his way to the couch, where he collapsed face down with a thud. "Wow. You look winded," Arturo said, looking over his phone at the breakfast table.
"Mmph," came Zak's muffled voice from the couch. "I ran back all the way from the gym. I'm so beat!"
"I'll bet," Arturo responded as he scanned through the morning's news. This was typical Zak: a ball of energy that was mostly charming but sometimes a bit dramatic. Glancing over the top of his screen, however, Arturo admitted to himself that he was enjoying the view. Zak was still splayed face down on the couch in a pair of gray sweatpants that clung to his upper thighs and emphasized his bubble butt, which was slightly straining them. His sweatshirt was riding up a bit and Arturo could see just enough of Zak's meaty back muscles.
