Turn 122 of 226

Ask Diane what she feels about the changes. She says she loves them. She also starts masturbating to her changes. She also starts joining your training sessions

The morning light is gray through the loading bay door. The body is sitting against the wall — the wall with the marks, the marks climbing toward the ceiling. Diane is on the concrete ten feet away, the distance Diane has been keeping since the changes started, the distance that is the thing the body does not close because the closing is Diane's to do. Diane's t-shirt is tight across the belly — the belly that has grown visibly in two weeks, the soft flesh pressing the fabric, the flesh that curves over the jeans' waistband. The jeans are the jeans from last week and the last week's jeans are the thing that do not fit anymore and the not-fitting is visible in the seam splitting along Diane's inner thigh.

'What do you feel?' Lena says. The asking is from the floor — from 9'0", from the body that is the source, from the voice that is deep and low and the voice that carries without effort. The asking is not casual. The asking is the thing the body has been holding for days — the question the body has been afraid to ask because the answer is the thing the body needs and the needing is the thing the body has never needed before.

Diane's hand is on her belly. The hand is not the cautious hand from last week — not the hand that pressed and flinched, not the hand that pulled back. The hand is the thing that rests. The hand is the thing that cups the softness and the cupping is the thing Diane does while thinking about the answer and the thinking is the thing that lasts four seconds.

'I love them,' Diane says. The saying is quiet and the quiet is not the professional quiet. The quiet is the quiet of a person saying a true thing that surprises the person saying it. Diane's eyes are on her own belly. The eyes are the thing the body reads and the reading is the thing that finds no hesitation — no blink, no hard reset, no pulling back. Diane's hand moves from the belly to the thigh. The thigh is thicker. The thigh is the thing the jeans cannot contain. The hand squeezes the thigh and the squeezing is the thing that produces a sound from Diane — the low sound, the sound that is not speech, the sound the body recognizes because the body made the same sound months ago on the apartment floor.

The sound is arousal. The recognition is immediate. The body watches Diane's hand move — the hand moving from the thigh to the belly, the belly to the hip, the hip to the place between the legs where the jeans are tightest. Diane's eyes close. The closing is the thing that lasts three seconds and the three seconds is the space where Diane decides and the deciding is the thing that happens without the voice that says stop. Diane's hand presses. The pressing is the thing the body has done a thousand times on this concrete — the pressing that produces the warmth, the warmth that builds, the building that the body knows the rhythm of. Diane's hips shift. The shifting is the thing that grinds against the hand and the grinding is the thing that makes Diane's breathing change.

The body does not look away. The body has never looked away from anything. The watching is the thing the body does and the watching is the thing Diane knows is happening because Diane's eyes open — the eyes finding the body's eyes, the finding holding, the holding being the thing that does not break. Diane's hand moves faster. The jeans are the thing between the hand and the skin and the jeans are the thing Diane pushes aside — the waistband unbuttoned, the zipper down, the hand sliding beneath. The sound Diane makes is the sound the body has heard from its own mouth. The sound is the sound of a body finding the thing it wants and the wanting being the thing the body cannot stop.

Diane comes. The coming is the thing that arches Diane's back off the concrete — the small back, the back that is not 950 pounds, the back that is the beginning of the thing the body is. Diane's mouth is open. The sound fills the warehouse. The sound is the thing the body holds in its chest and the holding is the thing that is not arousal and not the addiction and not the wish. The holding is the thing the body has no name for. The body has never needed a name for it before.

The afternoon is training. The body is on the bag — the 120-pound bag, the bag that swings under the combination chains, the bag that has held every strike the body has thrown for months. Diane is on the concrete fifteen feet away. Diane is doing push-ups. The push-ups are the thing Diane started yesterday — ten push-ups, the arms shaking on the eighth, the arms failing on the tenth. Today Diane does fourteen. The fourteenth is the thing that does not fail. The fourteenth is the thing that holds Diane's weight — the weight that is more than it was, the weight that is the wish's work, the weight that Diane is learning to move. The body watches between combinations. The watching is the thing that fills the space between the bag work and the ground drills and the watching is the thing the body has never had during training. The body has always trained alone. The body has always been the only body on the concrete. The body is not the only body on the concrete anymore.

Diane moves to squats. The squats are the thing the body taught Diane three days ago — the form the body corrected, the stance the body adjusted, the depth the body demonstrated. Diane's thighs are thicker than they were. The jeans are off — the jeans Diane discarded an hour ago because the jeans were the thing that stopped the squats from going deep. Diane is in the t-shirt and nothing else. The t-shirt rides up on each squat. The belly shows. The belly is the thing the body watches and the watching is the thing that produces the warmth and the warmth is the thing the body is learning to name.

The name is companionship. The name is the thing the body has been reaching for since the arms opened after the tournament. The name is the thing the body has been lonely for since the bathroom mirror. The name is the thing Diane is becoming — not the visiting, not the watching, not the standing at the rail. The training. The eating. The sleeping on the concrete. The body on the floor beside the body on the floor. The animal beside the animal. The body has it. The body has it and the having is the thing the body does not grip too tightly because the animal knows the thing about gripping and the thing is that the companion has to stay at the fire on its own.