Turn 123 of 226

Encourage Diane to keep going. Eventually, I kiss Diane like an animal. She does the same back to me

The training session is the thing that fills the morning. The body is on the bag — nine-hit chains, the combinations flowing without thought, the leather snapping under hands that are calloused and huge. Diane is on the concrete doing push-ups. The push-ups are at twenty now. The twentieth is the thing that trembles but holds. The body finishes a combination chain and turns. 'Good,' Lena says. The saying is one word and the one word is the thing the body has never given anyone — the praise the body received from Marcus in nods, the praise the body learned to recognize as the only praise worth having. The word lands on Diane and the landing is the thing that produces a smile — a small smile, a smile through the strain, a smile the body catches and the catching is the warmth.

'Again,' Lena says. The saying is the thing the body says between sets and the saying is the thing Diane responds to — the response being the body dropping for another set, the arms that are stronger than yesterday, the arms that will be stronger tomorrow. The body watches Diane's form. The form is better. The back is straighter. The core is engaged — the belly that is softer than it was two weeks ago tightening under the effort, the belly that is the wish's work holding the body's weight. 'Hips lower on the squats. You have the strength now. Use it.' The instruction is the thing the body gives between exercises and the giving is the thing the body has never done — the teaching, the passing of knowledge from the animal to the companion.

The afternoon is ground drills. The body is on the concrete demonstrating the hip escape — the massive frame rotating on the floor, the hips bridging, the shrimp motion that creates space. Diane watches. Diane tries. The trying is the thing that is clumsy — the body not knowing the movement, the limbs not coordinating, the belly getting in the way. 'Slower. Feel where your weight is.' Diane tries again. The second attempt is better. The third attempt is the thing that produces recognition in Diane's eyes — the recognition of the body's own weight, the understanding that the weight is not an obstacle but a tool. The body nods. The nod is the thing Marcus gave and the nod is the thing the body passes forward.

The evening is food. The delivery containers cover the concrete. The body eats the way the body eats — hands in the containers, the food shoveled, the chewing fast, the swallowing that produces the fullness. Diane eats beside the body. The eating is the thing Diane has learned — the eating that is not cautious, the eating that is not the office lunch. Diane's hands are in the containers. Diane's face is messy — the sauce on the chin, the rice on the cheek. The body looks at Diane and the looking is the thing that holds. The mess. The fullness. The bare feet on the concrete. The belly showing beneath the t-shirt. The body that is changing. The body that is becoming.

The kiss is not a decision. The kiss is the thing the body does because the animal does not decide — the animal moves toward the thing it wants and the moving is the thing that has no preamble. The body's hand is on Diane's face. The hand is enormous — the hand that has struck hundreds of opponents, the hand that is calloused and rough. The hand cups Diane's jaw. The jaw is soft now — the jawline that was sharp two weeks ago, the jawline that the wish has rounded. The body leans down. The leaning is the thing that closes the distance from 9'0" to Diane's height and the closing is the thing the body does without hesitation. The mouth finds Diane's mouth.

The kiss is not gentle. The kiss is the thing the animal gives — the mouth pressing hard, the tongue pushing past Diane's lips, the taste of curry and rice and the warehouse floor. Diane's mouth opens. The opening is the thing that does not hesitate — the mouth that meets the body's mouth, the tongue that pushes back, the teeth that click against teeth. Diane's hands are on the body's chest — the hands that grip the pectoral muscle beneath the fat, the hands that pull the body closer. The pulling is the thing the body feels and the feeling is the thing that produces the sound from the body's throat — the low sound, the animal sound, the sound that is not speech.

Diane kisses back. The kissing back is the thing the body recognizes as the same — the same hunger, the same roughness, the same lack of the thing the old world calls tenderness. Diane's mouth is aggressive. Diane's teeth catch the body's lower lip. The catching is the thing that draws blood — the small break, the copper taste, the taste the body knows from fights. The body does not pull back. The body presses harder. The pressing is the thing that pushes Diane onto the concrete — the back on the food containers, the containers crushing, the mess spreading. Diane's legs wrap around the body's midsection. The wrapping is the thing that grips the enormous frame — the legs that are stronger than they were, the legs that are the wish's work, the legs that hold.

The warehouse holds the sound. The sound is the two bodies on the concrete — the kissing that is the thing animals do, the mouths that are not gentle, the hands that grip and pull and squeeze. The body's hand is in Diane's hair. The hair is unwashed. The hair is the thing the body grips and the gripping is the thing that arches Diane's neck and the arching is the thing that exposes the throat. The body's mouth moves to the throat. The mouth is the thing that bites — not hard enough to break, hard enough to mark, hard enough that Diane makes the sound the body has heard from Diane's mouth before. The sound of a body finding what it wants.