Athlete

John belched loudly and set his beer down on the table. The broadcast was a commercial break, so he decided to get another can. He grimaced at the sight of his wife washing dishes in the sink. Martha had always been old-fashioned, doing everything herself at home, refusing to rely on electronic and mechanical helpers. Despite everything, his husband had to admit that the dishes she washed by hand were much more thoroughly scrubbed than those cleaned in the dishwasher. Maybe she did it out of boredom, he thought. His earnings were perfectly sufficient to provide them with a high standard of living, so Martha didn't have to work, and since she wasn't particularly sociable, she stayed home all day.

Something would have to be done about that, John mused, taking a beer from the fridge. Martha's old-fashioned nature wasn't limited to doing household chores, even the smallest ones, herself. She was completely obsessed with the "good old '90s." She listened to music from the late 20th century, dressed like American women in the 1990s. She hadn't read a single book published after 2000, not counting childhood fairy tales. This didn't really bother John, only sometimes it puzzled or irritated him a bit. Because how can you be in love with something you've only heard about without ever seeing it in person? At the turn of the century, Martha was too young to remember anything from that period. It reminded her of men fascinated by old cars, one in a hundred of whom had seen one at a rally somewhere. Besides, only a tiny fraction of society had such symptoms. Born in the new millennium, John was glad to be free of these foolish sentiments.

For a moment, he glanced between the beer and his wife, who was standing with her back to him. Finally, he decided. He put the can in the fridge and instead took out a recently purchased authentic French wine. He walked over to his wife, put his arm around her waist, and kissed her neck. Martha quickly turned around and, throwing her wet arms around his neck, kissed him back.

"How about we make a candlelit dinner, just the two of us?" John asked when his mouth was finally free.

"I'm not finished in the kitchen yet...

" "I'll do it for you..."

"And what if Tommy gets back early?

" "You know perfectly well that Tom will be staying at Christian's until the broadcast ends. There's probably a dozen of them there, watching the World Series together.

" "But we already had dinner..." Martha looked worried; she always loved to tease him. John kissed her again.

"Okay," she said, taking the bottle from him. "I'll light the candles, put on some music, and you hurry up."

As soon as John was alone, he immediately threw everything into the sink, not worrying about the silverware or dishes. He found the right glasses, piled some cookies on a plate, and went into the living room.

The room was plunged into semi-darkness. On a neatly laid table sat a bottle of wine and lit candles. As usual, Martha had dug out real wax candles instead of the usual electric ones. Soothing music discreetly flowed from speakers hidden in the wall. Besides the candles, the only light was the television. Fortunately, Martha didn't turn it off, just muted the volume. She had always respected John's passion for sports.

They hadn't spent such a pleasant time together in a long time. Martha was delighted and had a constant smile on her face. Her husband was pleased, too. He could glance at the television every now and then and follow the World Athletics Championships. He was just lifting another cake to his mouth when Martha shouted,

"Turn on the volume!"

The room immediately filled with the announcer's voice, and the music automatically dimmed even further, making it barely audible.

"You have an unforgettable opportunity to see what athletes looked like at the beginning of this century." During the break between the events, we'll see the 200m race...

A moment later, John understood his wife's sudden reaction. The camera was showing one of the runners. John stared in disbelief at the powerfully muscled, perfectly healthy legs. The sprinter's entire body looked incredibly firm and healthy, and strangest of all, there were no visible implants, implants, or prosthetics.

"That's what's truly fascinating!" Martha said, not taking her eyes off the screen. "A true, natural athlete. A man in his prime. A man who has the strength to overcome his own weaknesses and..."

The surprise on John's face quickly turned into a wry smile when he saw the competitors struggling to enter the turn. Overall, the pace of the race was rather pathetic.

"So, what do you think about that?" Martha asked triumphantly after the event. John shrugged. His wife wasn't often in such a good mood, and he didn't want to upset her.

"Yeah... Quite interesting..." He took a sip of wine. "You know, and since we're talking about sports...

" "Turn off the volume!" Martha reacted immediately to the sight of the giant placing a hammer on the hook that had replaced his hand.

"...the school coach said Tom had enormous talent

." Martha glared at him

. "Don't even think about it," she snapped.

"Hey, honey, you know I wouldn't do anything without consulting you. I just said it." John tried to smooth things over. "I don't even know what Tom thinks about it, maybe he wouldn't want to..."

It took a long time for Martha to regain her composure. Finally, John turned off the TV, turned up the volume, and started dancing. Then they went to the bedroom.

- - - - - - - - -

John munched on a sandwich and drank some sour juice. It was already light outside, so he didn't see the point in going to bed – he'd have to leave for work soon. Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming shut echoed through the quiet house. A moment later, a blond boy burst into the kitchen.

"Hi, Dad! Dad, Dad, did you see that fantastic final jump...

" "Shhh..." John shushed his son. "Mom just fell asleep."

Tom fell silent immediately. He tiptoed to the table, sat down next to his father, and whispered,

"Did you see the run on...

" "Yes, son, I did. I watched the broadcast all night today," John lied. "Listen, Tom, remember when your PE teacher said he could get you training at a professional club?"

The boy's eyes lit up.

"You'd train with other talented boys your age," his father continued. "And then, in a few years, you could try out for a professional, adult league. Would you like to?"

"Sure!" Tommy exclaimed, but then immediately regained his composure and whispered a correction. "Oh, Dad, of course! Everyone dreams of that."

"Okay. I agree. I'll talk to your coach tomorrow," John said, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Just remember: don't tell Mom about this yet. It'll be our little secret."

Tommy nodded understandingly.

"Yeah! I always knew you wanted to be an athlete. Just like I did at your age. I'm sure you'll be a famous track and field athlete someday. What are you best at?

" "Sprinting, of course," Tommy replied proudly.

"Well, if you're good, if you try hard and stand out in your new club, then..." John paused. "But you have to be really good! If you are, I'll agree to amputate your weaker leg and put in a prosthetic! What do you think?" A

broad smile spread across the boy's face.