Turn 124 of 226

Both of you escalate. Diane finally stops shaving and showering

The escalation is not a moment. The escalation is the thing that happens over days — the days after the kiss, the days when the mouth becomes the thing the bodies use instead of words. The body wakes on the concrete and Diane is against the body's side and the waking is the thing that begins with the mouth. The body's mouth on Diane's neck. Diane's mouth on the body's chest. The morning is the mouths and the hands and the grinding — the 1,040-pound frame pressing Diane into the concrete, Diane's legs wrapping the body's midsection, the weight that Diane takes and the taking is the thing that produces sounds from both of them. The sounds are the animal sounds. The sounds fill the warehouse the way the training sounds fill it — the impact and the breathing and the wordless communication of bodies that have stopped needing language.

The training becomes the thing the bodies share in every way. The morning run — the body's four miles at under 120 bpm, the steady-state cardio that burns nothing — Diane runs beside the body now. Diane's bare feet slap the industrial district's pavement. Diane's body is thicker than it was a week ago — the thighs that rub together on each stride, the belly that bounces, the breasts that move beneath the t-shirt without a bra. The body watches Diane run and the watching is the thing that produces the arousal and the arousal is the thing the body does not hide. The body stops at the warehouse wall. The body presses Diane against the concrete. The mouths find each other. The running becomes the thing that ends with the bodies on the ground.

The shaving stops on day three. The body does not ask. The body does not need to ask because the asking is the thing the old world does and the old world is the thing Diane left when the kissing started. Diane's legs are the thing the body's hand touches on the third morning and the touching is the thing that finds the stubble — the coarse hair on the shins, the hair on the thighs, the hair that was not there two days ago. The body's hand pauses. The pause is not hesitation. The pause is the thing the body does to feel the stubble and the feeling is the thing that produces the warmth in the chest. The body's hand moves up. The underarms are hairy — the hair dark and full, the hair that Diane has not removed. The body's mouth finds the underarm. The mouth is the thing that breathes in and the breathing is the thing that takes the smell — the sweat, the musk, the smell of a body that has stopped performing hygiene for anyone.

The shower is the last thing. The shower is the thing Diane does on day four — the last shower, the shower the body does not see, the shower that happens at the warehouse's utility sink because the warehouse has no shower and the utility sink is the thing Diane has been using. The body comes back from the morning run. The body is sweaty. The body is the thing that always smells like sweat and food and urine. Diane is standing at the utility sink. Diane's hair is wet. Diane is drying off with a rag. The body watches. The watching is the thing that reads Diane's face and the face is the thing that shows the decision — the decision that is not announced, the decision that is not discussed. Diane folds the rag. Diane drops the rag on the concrete. The rag is the thing Diane does not pick up again.

Diane's smell changes. The change is the thing the body tracks the way the body tracks the scale — with attention, with the specific curiosity of a person monitoring progress. Day five is the thing where Diane's smell becomes distinct — not the body's smell, not the sweat and urine and sex that the body produces. Diane's smell is lighter. Diane's smell is the thing that is its own — the musk that is softer, the sweat that is different, the particular chemistry of a body that is not the body's body. The body buries its face in Diane's neck. The body breathes. The breathing is the thing that takes the smell and the taking is the thing that produces the sound — the low sound, the animal sound, the sound that is the thing the body makes when the body finds the thing it wants.

Diane's body hair fills in. The body watches it come — the legs that go from stubble to coarse dark hair, the underarms that go from stubble to full bushes, the hair between Diane's legs that grows thick and curly. The body's hand finds the hair between Diane's legs and the finding is the thing that produces the gasp from Diane — the gasp that is the thing the body swallows with its mouth. The t-shirt is the last piece of clothing. The t-shirt is the thing Diane wears on day six and the wearing is the thing that is different — the t-shirt not covering the belly, the belly that hangs over the waistband, the belly that is the wish's work. The body pulls the t-shirt off. The pulling is the thing that exposes Diane's breasts — the breasts that are fuller, the nipples that are darker, the breasts that hang heavier without support. Diane's hands cover them. The covering lasts two seconds. The covering is the thing the body's hands replace — the body's enormous hands cupping the breasts, the thumbs finding the nipples, the mouths finding each other again.

The warehouse holds two animals now. The animals are the thing the concrete holds and the concrete does not distinguish between them. The mess is the shared mess — the food debris and the urine and the sweat and the sex. The training is the shared training — the push-ups and the squats and the ground drills. The sleeping is the shared sleeping — the 1,040-pound body and the 180-pound body tangled on the concrete, the smaller body pressed against the larger body's side, the warmth between them the thing that does not fade. The body is not alone. The body has not been alone since Diane stayed. The body does not think the word companion. The body does not need the word. The body has the thing the word points at.