Turn 116 of 226

Say the offer to join is always open. If the discomfort ever goes away.

The body rolls onto its back. The ceiling is eighteen inches away. The ceiling has been eighteen inches away since the last measurement and the measurement is the thing the body does not think about right now. The body thinks about Diane. The body thinks about the voice Diane described — the voice that says this is wrong, the voice that says you should stop, the voice the wish took from Lena's chest and took completely. The body does not remember the voice. The body cannot remember the voice. The not-remembering is the wish's final gift and the final gift is the thing the body did not know was a gift until Diane named the thing the body does not have.

"The offer is always open," Lena says. The saying is from the floor — from the concrete, from the mess, from the position the animal occupies. The voice is low and the low is the thing that carries without effort because the warehouse is small and the warehouse holds sound the way it holds everything else.

"If the discomfort ever goes away."

Diane looks at the body. The looking is the thing that takes in the full picture — the 8'6" and 950 pounds, the tanned skin, the matted hair, the yellow teeth, the belly rising and falling with each breath, the body hair that covers every surface. The looking is not the professional assessment. The looking is not the concerned friend. The looking is the thing Diane does when Diane is deciding whether to keep a door open or close it. The looking lasts four seconds.

"I know," Diane says. The saying is two words and the two words are the thing that carries everything Diane cannot say — the gratitude, the worry, the recognition that the door exists, the recognition that Diane might walk through it someday. The two words are the thing that ends the conversation without closing it. Diane stands. The standing is stiff — the concrete's toll on a body that is not 950 pounds, a body that has not adapted to sleeping on hard surfaces, a body that still feels every hour of the night in its spine and its hips.

Diane walks to the door. The walking is the thing that takes seven steps — seven steps across the warehouse floor, seven steps through the dried mess, seven steps that take Diane from the animal's space to the world's space. Diane stops at the threshold. The threshold is the thing that divides the warehouse from the industrial district's morning and the division is the thing the body sees clearly for the first time. The warehouse is one world. The industrial district is another. Diane stands in the doorway between them.

"Get some rest," Diane says. The saying is the thing a person says when they care and the caring is the thing the body recognizes and the recognizing is the warmth — the warmth that is not arousal, not the addiction, not the wish. The warmth is the body's own. Diane walks into the morning. The body is alone.

The body is alone and the alone is the thing the body has always known and the always-known is the thing the body does not suffer. The body reaches for the legal pad. Two weaknesses. Two entries. The scramble study and the phase-shift recognition. The body does not train yet. The body lies in the mess and the mess is the body's bed and the bed is the thing that holds the warmth Diane left behind. The warmth fades. The warmth always fades. The body does not chase it. The body waits for the addiction to fill the space the warmth occupied and the addiction is the thing that always fills the space. The legal pad is in the body's hand. The ceiling is eighteen inches above. The body is 8'6" and 950 pounds and the body is growing. The body is always growing.