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Art, the report wasn’t good. His biological age was seventy-three, a disastrous sixteen years older than his real age. Forty pounds overweight and with a cholesterol level in the stratosphere, he was a prime candidate for a coronary. His doctor had sentenced him to the fourteen-day cardiac rehabilitation program as restitution for a nightly shakerful of martinis, a four-pack-a-day cigarette habit, and little exercise outside of an occasional expedition onto the golf course.
    Charlotte liked him enormously. He had a wonderful face: long and narrow, with prominent temples from which his thin blond hair had long ago receded; eyebrows suspended like circumflexes over small, deep-set blue eyes; and a long nose leading down to a narrow mouth filled with small, even teeth. It was a Gothic face, a knight’s face. He looked, with his furrowed brow and pugnacious jaw, like a St. George who had wearied of slaying dragons.
    The class commenced with the arrival of the teacher, a limber young woman named Claire who led them through body circles, waist twists, and scissor kicks to the gentle strains of easy listening music. A stylish and energetic leader, she regularly interrupted her routine to cheer on her students with exhortations of the “Come on, you can do it” variety or to demonstrate variations they could do at home or in the car.
    Art graciously took it upon himself to be Charlotte’s guardian, showing her how to position her uncooperative limbs and reassuring her in moments of distress that she needn’t complete every count.
    But if Art saw no need to complete every count, a lean-and-hungry-looking man in a dark gray sweat suit did. When Art stopped at six counts, he went on to twelve. When Art dropped out of the routine, red-faced and gasping, the man in the dark gray sweat suit went on to finish effortlessly. If Art was the class dunce, the man in dark gray was its star.
    “See that guy there?” whispered Art between exercises.
    “How could I miss him?”
    “His real age is fifty-one—he’s only six years younger than me. But his biological age is only twenty-three. Fifty years’ difference.” He shook his head. “Fifty years!”
    Charlotte studied the man in amazement. Narrow-waisted and sharp-featured, he wore a New York Marathon T-shirt. What miracles of rejuvenation had he performed on his body that the computer should assign him an age fifty years younger than a man only six years his senior?
    “One of those guys you want to kill,” said Art. “Mr. Physically Fit. Our Role Model, I call him.”
    “Keep those heads up,” admonished Claire. Moving around the room, she adjusted here and advised there. She had a bright, cheerful manner and a wide, pale face with a high forehead and a light dusting of freckles. It wasn’t a pretty face, but it was intelligent and forthright.
    “What does our role model do for a living?” asked Charlotte as she and Art struggled to swing their legs into the air. She noticed that the Role Model accomplished this feat without a grunt or groan, thanks no doubt to rock-hard stomach muscles.
    “An investment banker. Specializes in hostile takeovers,” said Art. He named a prominent New York firm.
    Charlotte nodded. She knew the type: up at dawn for a ten-mile jog around the reservoir, lunchtime racquet ball at the athletic club, meals of yogurt and fruit juice and vitamins taken on the run. Physical fitness in the name of the Almighty Dollar. New York was full of them.
    After a final series of neck twists, Claire announced the conclusion of class. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. The announcement was met with a burst of applause, in gratitude partly for the style and vigor of Claire’s leadership and partly for the welcome fact that class was over.
    Charlotte exited behind Art and the Role Model: one pasty, flaccid, and jowly; the other tan, trim, and sharp-featured. They could be, she decided, the contrasting symbols of the Era of Physical