PULSE [H.S]

007

"The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existence." — Albert Einstein

There's a knock on my door at 7:30 a.m.

It has me flying out of bed, wondering who could possibly be knocking on my door this early on a Wednesday morning. When I get up, I feel a slight ache in my temples from the night before. I'm not sure if it's from the drinks or from being tired, but I know I'll need to pop some Aspirin regardless.

I look through the peephole, but there's nobody out there. Maybe the knock was on Martha's door. It has been a while since anyone visited her. 

I let out a big yawn and put on some workout clothes, which to me means leggings and whatever shirt I can find that's clean. Since the bruise on my arm has vanished, I settle on a tank top.

After getting myself together, I throw on a sweatshirt and head out. When I open my door, I almost trip over something on the ground outside of it. 

Flowers. The note says, 'Have a great day, babe.'

I stare at the flowers in disbelief for a few seconds, and then I put them on my kitchen island. I head out, making a note to thank Aaron later. He hasn't sent me flowers in a long time, but I can tell this is his way of apologizing for leaving in the middle of dinner.

I feel the raindrops on my skin the second I step outside, so I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I walk as fast as I can to my car, trying to stay as dry as possible. I hate driving in the rain, but it is always raining here.

When I walk into the gym, I am genuinely shocked that I managed to get here without overthinking this and freaking myself out. But here I am, ready for another lesson with Mr. Grumpy Pants. It confuses me how he can be nice but mean at the same time. It was nice that he made sure I got in my Uber safely, but he also made it clear that he didn't want to talk to me.

He is waiting for me when I walk in, so I hurry to shove my stuff in the locker room. I'm not late. Actually, I am five minutes early. I rush anyway, so I don't make him angry before the lesson even starts.

"Morning," he grumbles at me when I meet him.

I mimic his tone, grumbling back, "Morning."

He shoots me a scary look, and I make a note to never mock him again. He grabs a roll of tape from behind the counter and throws it to me. I hold it out in front of me.

Tape? Does he want to tape my mouth so I don't annoy him?

"Wrap your hands," he instructs.

I reply dumbly, "How? And why?"

He lets out a long breath, like he's already had enough of me for the day. He takes the tape back from me and grabs my hand in his, saying, "So you don't get scars on your delicate little skin."

Condescending prick.

I watch as he wraps the tape around my hand and wrist, making sure that I pay attention and know how to do it if he asks me to do it again. I feel the callousness on his rough hands, probably seasoned from boxing so much. The tape wraps in a figure-eight shape around my palm, covering my knuckles.

His voice startles me since I was focused on watching the taping process. He says, "Make a fist." I ball my hands into fists. He asks, "How do they feel?"

"Good, I guess. Why don't I just wear gloves?"

He throws the tape to the side of the mat and says to me, "Because you don't wear gloves when you're actually trying to defend yourself."