Fighting Love

I felt the best when I was beating the shit out of things.

    I usually settled for heavy bags; they were more socially accepted to punch than brick walls.  The gym was down the street from my apartment, so I spent every afternoon I could in there.  It was the one place I could let my troubles roll off my back.  When I was there, nothing else in the world mattered, even if just for an hour and a half.  Even boxing matches that had gone to shit didn’t matter when I could win against the heavy bag every single time.  It was weightless compared to me.

    Getting a room of the gym to yourself was an art I mastered.  You had to establish a presence, create a routine, and become a force not to be reckoned with.  I arrived every day at three, pummeled the heaviest bags and pumped the most iron, and left by four thirty.  Soon, everyone knew who I was, what my schedule was, and what to do to avoid being at the gym with me.  It was a lot like growing up.  No one wanted to be seen working out next to me, and honestly, it worked out perfectly.  I got to work out alone, and go home alone, and go to bed.  Alone.

Today was different.

    The watch around my wrist grabbed more of my attention than the heavy bag did.  Minutes crawled by, slowly making their way to four o’clock.  I had the alarm on.  I knew I had the alarm on, but I could not stop looking at that thing.

    I swung once.  Three fifty five.

    Forget about it, Marilyn.  Focus.  You have five more minutes to focus.  My mind went to the opponent I faced off against yesterday, the man with the nose that curved inwards.  He leaned down in my memory to look at me, to call me sweetheart.

I swung a few more times.  The bag swung violently.  

He had this ugly black tooth in the back of his smile.  I could see it when he leaned in towards me.  I wanted to knock it out so bad.

I swung harder than before.  The bag creaked.  I checked my watch.  Was it still three fifty five?!

“Whatever.”  The frustration in my voice echoed out to no one as I tore my gloves off and threw them into my gym bag.  Cutting my gym time short was unheard of.  The tension that had been temporarily relieved found a spot to build in my temples.  As I walked into the showers, keeping my head down, I had to remind myself that missing a half hour of my workout was a sacrifice.

I read somewhere that relationships included making sacrifices.  It sounded like poorly hidden fine print to me at the time; it was the secret ‘gotcha’ every contract had.  At the time, it had seemed like a trap.  Now, it seemed feasible.  After all, it was for Antonio.

Antonio.  My mind wandered as my hands mindlessly ran through my red hair to soak it under the water.  Antonio would never let himself worry about those things.  I knew him so well.  I knew his favorite movies were the ones where the dog doesn’t die, and that’s the only criteria.  I knew that he wanted to visit every country someday, wearing a tacky blue Hawaiian print shirt, just so everyone knew he was a tourist.  I knew his voice was the perfect thing to ease my nerves, and I knew he didn’t think sacrifices were fine print bullshit.

For him, I could give up some time at the gym.

Turning off the shower, I wrung out my hair, pulling it back into a messy ponytail, and quickly dried off to throw on something to wear.  I didn’t bring anything fancy to change into, since Antonio always insisted I didn’t have to dress up for dates, but as I looked at my torn jeans and the fading tank top he gave me for my birthday last year, I wished I had.

“Looking good.” The woman that passed me stared a second too long as she spoke.  The way she spoke was familiar.  I loved way she hid the sarcasm enough to get away with it.  It was something my mother would have said.  

“Thanks.”  I really wished I had brought a dress.

Packing my bag together, I slid on my flip flops and trudged out of the gym.  Even in the late afternoon, the sun burned down, hot enough to make me sweat.  I moved under the overhang of the roof of the gym and slid down to the ground, water dripping from my ponytail down my back.  Even outside, with the heat of the sun and a soaked back to focus on, my mind kept going back to the date.

It wasn’t the date I was nervous about.  Not completely.  Antonio and I had already gone on two dates, and they weren’t any different than when we hung out as friends before.  We went to the movies, and we went to the park that was halfway between our homes.  They were always at places we had been before; Antonio promised those were the best places to take a “rookie” like me.  I hated that nickname, and I hated more that it was true.  Two dates, at 24 years old, made me the biggest rookie of them all.  Rookies screwed up.  Rookies lose.

Antonio promised we’d take it slow.

“Mary?  Mary!”  I almost didn’t hear Antonio’s voice, even if he was leaned down towards me.  How long had he been standing there?  “There ya are!  I thought for a second you were sleepin’ with yer eyes wide open!”

“Wha-?  Oh, no, Andy,” laughs escaped me, “I was just thinking.”  He extended a hand out to me, and I didn’t need it, but I let him help me up anyway.  “Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem!  You ready to go?”  He took a moment, grinning, “You look real cute today!  Of course, that might be ‘cause that’s the shirt I got you…” He put a hand to his chin, “...Nah!  Yer just that cute.”

“Ha!  Thanks… You, look good yourself.  Uh.”  It wasn’t a matter of not having anything to say.  I just couldn’t pick something to compliment.  What was there to not like about Antonio?  His dirty blonde hair reached his shoulders, which fit him perfectly when he banged his head to all the wrong songs.  The blue flannel he wore over his muscle shirt was a bit big, but I could recall the time he wore it to a neighborhood bonfire and draped it over my shoulders to keep me warm, so I knew it was the perfect size for him.  Even now, his smile was perfect.  It made his eyes sparkle.  It made my heart pound.

“Nice…” I would have taken anything.  Nice shirt.  Nice shoes.  Nice outfit.  But instead of any of those things, all of which I thought were very nice, I went with, “Nice face.”

“Nice face?  Ya think?”  Antonio laughed and rubbed his hands across his cheeks and beard.  He spoke loud enough to drown out my protests, “Well, I do take great care of this face!  It was a gift from my mama!  I guess my dad had some part in it, but I can’t remember!”  The whole joke made Antonio laugh that one deep, contagious laugh.  “Ah, we better get goin’, Mary.  I gotta pick up the kids.”  

His hand took mine.  It was weird.  The last time someone held my hand was when my mother dragged me to the supermarket when I was eight.  Her grip had been just a little too tight; Antonio’s was softer.  Her fingers had been knotted claws around my small hand; Antonio’s rough fingers were gentle against the back of my scarred hand.  The two feelings couldn’t have been more different, but all I could picture was my mother’s death grip choking my young wrist.  On a date, of all things, I felt my stomach flip.  

I wished he would let go.