TMNT 2012 - Boyfriend Scenarios

Meeting Pt. 2: Leonardo

  The splint Noah gave you is starting to itch.

  You shove the heavy door open with your good shoulder, anger boiling your blood; who does that meat-headed human steroid think he is!? Forcing you to stay away from the gym until your wrist heals completely is one thing, but the week after the splint is removed!?!? What the fuck kind of bullshit is that!?

  Asshole, you spit at him in your head, glaring at nothing as you take a sharp left on Ludlow. Wind ruffles the baby hairs slipping out of your ponytail, the sun totally obscured by a thick layer of grey clouds. They look like old cotton balls left to rot.

  Instead of rushing to that stupid way-too-expensive hospital on Madison, you decided to let you boxing instructor, Noah, take a look at your injuries. In his late thirties, Noah isn't the type to ask questions or interrogate.. or charge for first aid. He took one look at your twisted wrist, bloodied mouth, and slightly dislocated shoulder and brought you into the gym's back office without a word. You learned that your left shoulder blade isn't cracked, just bruised, and that your slightly fractured ribs would simply have to heal on their own. Your wrist was his biggest concern, which you found funny considering that you hadn't even injured it in the fight. Turns out your drywall was a stronger opponent than a robot.

  At first, you were, of course, grateful; he'd gone out of his way to help you out, after all. Until he told you that you had to wait a week after he removed the splint to come back to the gym. Fuming, you attempted - calmly - to argue your point, but you were shut down. Twice. You remained civil, and thanked him through gritted teeth before slamming his office door behind you.

  Who needs him anyway?

  You can go to any gym in LES and practice the moves you already know! Screw Noah!

  You kick aggressively at a stray soda can littering the sidewalk, scowling at it. Not only is your wrist fucked up, but now your day is, too.

  Maybe you should take the subway, Grand Street Station to Eighty Sixth, and just visit Central Park. It's not like you have anything else to do, anyway; you called in sick to work today to get you injuries checked, which was really the only thing you had planned to do.

  I could go back to work.

  You instantly want to laugh at the thought, a smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. With your mind made up, you approach the nearest bus station, shoving both hands into the pockets of your black denim jacket. The last thing you need is some creep thinking your hand is broken and trying to take advantage of that.

  It's almost an hour to Central Park from this side of town, amidst the shitty people crowding together on the grimy seats and one or two homeless people putting their filthy hands all over the bars. You're already starting to regret this decision. The Upper East Side is full of snot-nosed rich people, which is one of the main reasons you rarely visit it; you're content in the "poor" side of town, beating down thugs that you encounter and taking pride in protecting the meek. The rich side of town never thinks about shit like that; they go about their cushy, luxurious lives without a care in the world.

  You turn your attention to your phone, trying to distract your mind; you're getting yourself worked up for nothing.

  You scroll through (social media platform) until the train's brakes squeal, cutting through the music blasting in your ears. The words "Lexington Av./86 St." crawl across an electronic sign above the automated doors separating the cars, and you stand, slipping through the aisle as quickly as you can. You keep your chin up, not letting the people on board notice your sudden urgency, and when you finally step off the platform and up into the chilly October air, you breathe deeply. You missed fresh air during that forty-minute ride.