[for Natalya]
Nov. 24th, 2011 03:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
manwithoutfearSince that first time I stumbled across the boxing ring, I've become careful about when I stop by for a visit. There's always the danger of being found. Of needing to make explanations for why a blind lawyer would be such a skilled pugilist. And while that is one of the few dangers left to me in this place, I am selective about when I indulge in it. About when I throw caution to the wind and simply enjoy the steady thump-thump rhythm of wrapped hands against a heavy bag.
Nighttime is the obvious choice. There are fewer who walk around when the air turns cool and it's easier to pass by unnoticed. (After all, I don't rely on the light of day to get around.) This is the only pattern I hold to. Day of the week, hour of the evening, duration of the stay... Those all vary. Tonight, the sun's only just gone down as I arrive, the sounds of the jungle only just beginning to shift.
I pull the hood of my sleeveless sweatshirt over my head upon entering the ring, fingers skirting around the stitches from my adventures in home improvement earlier in the week. (My hair's grown long these past few months and my bangs cover what's sure to be my newest scar.) Sense-memory takes me to the now-familiar bag. I place my hands flat against the material to situate myself, inhaling deeply. Sweat. Salt. Oiled leather and canvas. The perfume of flowers whose names I've learned (and some I've haven't).
I'm about to take a swing. To expend some of the restless energy that's built up deep in my bones while others have found more interesting avenues, when I hear something. Someone. Quiet. Were I anyone else, I might not have noticed them at all.
But since I'm not, I let out the breath I've been holding and I wait.
Nighttime is the obvious choice. There are fewer who walk around when the air turns cool and it's easier to pass by unnoticed. (After all, I don't rely on the light of day to get around.) This is the only pattern I hold to. Day of the week, hour of the evening, duration of the stay... Those all vary. Tonight, the sun's only just gone down as I arrive, the sounds of the jungle only just beginning to shift.
I pull the hood of my sleeveless sweatshirt over my head upon entering the ring, fingers skirting around the stitches from my adventures in home improvement earlier in the week. (My hair's grown long these past few months and my bangs cover what's sure to be my newest scar.) Sense-memory takes me to the now-familiar bag. I place my hands flat against the material to situate myself, inhaling deeply. Sweat. Salt. Oiled leather and canvas. The perfume of flowers whose names I've learned (and some I've haven't).
I'm about to take a swing. To expend some of the restless energy that's built up deep in my bones while others have found more interesting avenues, when I hear something. Someone. Quiet. Were I anyone else, I might not have noticed them at all.
But since I'm not, I let out the breath I've been holding and I wait.