Vixivo

Under the Sun

"You don't know what you're asking," I said.

"I do," Jimera assured, "That's why I'm asking."

"No, like, you don't know what you're asking."

Jimera decided to ask me to help him with his training.

"All you have to do is spar with me," Jimera said, "That's all I'm asking."

We stood in the middle of the garage room. Four cardboard boxes in specific areas to form a "square", this was to help us imagine a boxing ring. It really doesn't help.

"I could easily punch a hole in your gut," I explained, "I could give you more than permanent brain damage."

Off to the side of our "ring" was a pedestal fan that blew air in our direction. Without that fan, I'm certain I would've suffocated in this garage. Because for some reason, the garage isn't connected to the house when it comes to the ventilation, so it gets hot and stuffy if we don't have the garage door open.

"I'll be fine, stop whining," Jimera replied.

Our garage was pretty big. If we were to empty everything out, we would be able to fit about three cars in here. But instead, we have a fridge in the corner, a treadmill, a shelf with a bunch of tool boxes (guess what's inside them), and some trash bins. We also have a long, low shelf with a television box on it. We don't use the TV that much, but according to Mom, it has Netflix on it.

"What happens if I accidentally kill you?" I proposed, "You want me to feel guilty about it for the rest of my life?"

Jimera walked over to the shelf and picked up his phone that was lying there, he scrolled through it and tapped his screen.

"Bluetooth connected," Jimera's portable Bluetooth speaker spoke.

"Better talk to a therapist then," He said.

Jimera grabbed a pair of boxing gloves that were sitting on the ground, "Here," He said as he tossed me the pair.

I slid one of my hands through the gloves and tighten it with my free hand, repeating the process but with my mouth instead of a hand.

Jimera did the same as he pressed the screen of his phone a few times.

"You are about to witness the strength of street knowledge," The speaker spoke, "Straight outta Compton, crazy motherfucker named Ice Cube."

Jimera stepped into the "ring" and readied his hands, bringing them up to his face and brought out his boxing stance.

"Don't get knocked out," Jimera said.

I raised my fists, gripping my fingers and strengthen my hands.

"I won't," I responded.

"You too, boy, if you fuck with me."

For several seconds, nobody dared to do anything. Jimera hopped and skipped around, hoping to find an opening. I stood in one place, standing my ground and kept my eyes on him. Nobody threw a punch. Nobody threatened anyone.

"Mix 'em and cook 'em in a pot like gumbo!"

Jimera flicked his fist, jolting his arm to connect with my face. It was like lightning. I couldn't react with much, and before long, his arm was back in front of him.