We Are Never On The Same Page - Sk8 the Infinity [Joe x Cherry]

1. You Disrupt My Life

Good morning, Okinawa.

The sliver of yellow sun coming up the horizon did little to warm the room. He stood, allowing the bedsheets to pool onto the floor, and stretched his arms up. Joe's body ached against him, the steady beat of muscular improvement. His hands bumped against the ceiling.

I'm much too big for this space.

He had this thought most days, but never bothered to view other apartment listings. The cramped space was part of his meticulous routine, and, if anything, he felt an odd pride when he had to duck in door frames, or when he could drag his knuckles along the uppermost parts of the wall. It was reassuring.

Joe stuck his head into the sink basin, washing away the remains of sleep and hazy dreams. He threw on his gym clothes and neatly folded his chef's uniform into his work bag.

Morning was the best time for him.

Joe took great satisfaction in the selfish introversion of his daily ritual, of hopping onto his skateboard and tearing through a world that, however briefly, solely belonged to him. Shop windows were still dim. Palm trees stood like tired sentinels, green tufted heads, bent slightly at the waist. They swayed in a soft hello. Joe pushed the board forward, pleased. There was no one on the streets, barely any cars filled the road.
Just how he liked it.
He could focus less on his own movement and more on the details the blurred past him.
Dried fish, new advertisements of bathing suit clad models, gulls on a morning scavenge, the subtle corners where night still clung to the edges of the waking world.

Joe always wished he could spend more time on this commute, that he could enjoy slowly pushing through Okinawa's streets, but no- no. Gym. Gym, first.

There was no time to watch as light bore down onto the city. He brought his board to a halt outside of the Anytime Fitness and ducked into the side alley. Three small cats leapt out from their resting place beside the dumpster where they had been waiting for him. They seemed like some kind of family to Joe, with their shared orange and cream markings. He knelt down, and the biggest one rushed forward, bumping against his leg. It let out an irritated mew, as if to say, "C'mon man, hurry up! Can't ya see we're starving here?"

Joe chuckled to himself and scratched the cat beneath the chin with one hand, while removing a box of leftovers from his bag with the other. Old chicken cacciatore. Yesterday's fare. He had made sure to bring something with meat because the smallest of the three, the one with the white spot beneath its eye, had been looking scrawnier than usual. Joe unceremoniously doled the meal out onto the ground, backing up as the little hunters dived on the scraps. He watched them eat for a moment, then returned to gym's entrance.

Wake up. Get dressed.
Remember to put uniform in bag.
Skate to Anytime. Feed the cats.
Check, check, check, check.

It was a steady routine. The day had a spiritual order to it, no chaos to his affairs, no surprises. Just do something, do good, make the time, make the effort. Effort pays off. Joe relished in the near blind perfection of athleticism. It was simple to him, dependable. He put his bag and board in a locker, popped in his earbuds, and started to stretch.

Romanian dead lift. Lateral lunge. Bulgarian split squat. Cable crunch. All the movements had such odd names.
Where even is Bulgaria?
After an hour and a half of sweating, lifting, and 80s pop music, Joe showered off the effort and redressed.

The world outside had sprung into gear to catch up to him. A cloud in the sky, stiff suited businessmen and women, coffee smells. The palm trees stood up a bit straighter.

Work out, ride to work. Check, check.

The restaurant completed the triangular route between his house and the gym. He was always the first one to open up and the last one to close, because the restaurant was his baby. Waking her up and putting her to rest for the day wasn't a task for just anyone. He lovingly inspected the flower boxes, the worn, round stone path, the quaint sign that hung over the door.