Turn 80 of 226

Take a break and hydrate. Piss afterwards on the floor cause it feels good

The water container is a five-gallon jug she found behind the plumbing supply and the jug is cold because the warehouse floor is concrete and the concrete holds the night's chill into the afternoon. She drinks from it the way she drinks from everything now — tilted back, water running down her chin, down her neck, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone before soaking into the sports bra she wears for training. She drinks half the jug. The half is not a measurement. The half is the body saying enough and the enough is instinct and the instinct is the thing the wish built — the body knows what it needs and the knowing does not require thought.

The break is not sitting. She does not own a chair. The break is standing still, hands on her hips, breathing, the sweat cooling on her skin in the warehouse's ambient air. The body is four hundred seventy pounds and the four hundred seventy is distributed across a frame that is seven-nine and the distribution is dense — the muscle underneath pushing the fat outward, the fat softening the muscle's edges, the combination creating a body that is both and neither, a body that occupies space with an authority that does not ask permission. She can feel her heartbeat slowing. The training heart rate of 185 dropping toward the resting 35 and the drop is the engine cooling and the cooling feels like sinking into warm water.

The pressure builds while she stands. The hydration does what hydration does and the body processes it and the processing is fast now — the metabolism that drives four hundred seventy pounds of active tissue runs hot and the water moves through quickly. She does not go to the corner where the drain is. She does not go to the bucket she kept the first week. She stands where she is, legs apart, and lets go. The stream hits the concrete and the sound is loud in the empty warehouse and the loud is the acoustics of stone and the acoustics do not judge. The warmth spreads down her thighs. The feeling is release and the release is physical and the physical is pleasure and the pleasure is simple and the simple is the thing the wish promised — comfort, in the body, without condition.

The puddle spreads across the floor. The floor is slightly graded — the warehouse was built for light industrial use and the grade directs water toward the drain in the corner and the directing is convenient and the convenience is not why she does it. She does it because the body wants to and the wanting is the wish's language and the language is not words. She breathes out. The breath is long and satisfied and the satisfaction is animal and the animal is not a degradation. The animal is the layer beneath the professional and the professional was the costume and the costume is gone. The warehouse smells like sweat and urine and iron and the smell is the body's signature and the signature is honest.

She picks up the water jug again. Drinks more. The training cycle resumes in twenty minutes and the twenty minutes is the rest the body needs and the body knows the number and the knowing is the wish still working. She walks to the bag and the walking is heavy and the heavy is the floor registering her and the floor has learned to register her the way the bag has learned to register her and the city has learned to register her. Everything accommodates. Everything adjusts. The body does not adjust to anything. The body is the thing that does not move and the world moves around it and the moving-around is the wish's final form and the final form is comfort and the comfort is absolute.