KICK IT | JENLISA

53

Jennie

Darling. She called me darling.

To anyone not from around here, the word darling was another option on a generic list of pet names. It probably came off as more appropriate for seniors. But here? The endearment was reserved for affection.

Once I registered the word, I bolted off Lisa's lap as if her crotch was on fire. Lisa's tall frame was warm, strong, and secure. She wrapped around me as if she protected me from my memories. And I was embarrassed as fuck for how I collapsed into her, a tear-stained and snotty mess.

After my garage meltdown, I avoided the stubborn, Yeti-sized giant for two weeks. Kinda. Sorta. Not really. I avoided her within proximity.

Darling. The word haunted me on a repeat loop, including when she cornered me in the studio hallway. I shivered at how much I wanted to hear it whispered, low and deep, in my ear again. The giant erection she pressed into me was too close. Her breath kissing my ear and lips teasing my skin were too hot. The concern enriching the brown in her eyes was too deep. Taken altogether, Lisa cracked the foundation of my walls of restraint, so I resorted to my default stubbornness.

Challenging Lisa's seriousness was ridiculous. She had already proved herself by surrendering her shoulder to my guidance. Her yoga skills improved at an impressive rate. I shouldn't have been surprised; she was a professional athlete. Her workmanship and dedication were as admirable as her muscles. I liked igniting the fire that burned in her eyes, hitching her jaw, and pulling her neck and shoulder cords into definition.

But she couldn't care for me. It wasn't possible for reasons that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

Her response? A splinter lodged under my skin. On a scale from unnoticeable to uncomfortable, it was jumping over a bonfire wearing gasoline underwear. It was a fucking dumpster fire simmering outside a fireworks factory. It was Jackson and I eating across the Thanksgiving table from Great Aunt Soo-mi without looking at the hairy mole on her chin.

After I told her that she wasn't serious enough, a different person entered my studio. Ideally, Lisa would've been quiet and reserved, occupied her space, and engaged in small talk with Yuh-jung. But nope. Of course, she couldn't take the humble route.

Instead, she turned into a massive flirt. News of her being single hit the media two hours after we spoke ten days ago. One blurry photo of her walking across the parking lot quadrupled the studio's membership. Hordes of vagina vultures converged on my once peaceful respite from human idiocy.

One charming smile after another, she wooed them over to the dick side with respondent heart eyes, batted lashes, and giggles. So. Many. Giggles.

"She's here!" greeted me in every class. Bleh. Double Bleh.

Yuh-jung became a minority. Fitted, flexible yoga clothes were the most comfortable option that I recommended. Now? Low-cut, V-neck tops stretched stripper-tight over the vagina vultures filled every mat around Lisa. I didn't notice the growing demographic shift until my studio room resembled a dancer audition call for a rap video.

The Lisa Manoban Yoga Studio effect compounded within twelve hours of the public declaration of her singlehood. Every class was waitlisted. Strangers became my new fake best friends. I couldn't pee in the bathroom without hearing a sink declaration of Lisa's... hotness. What fresh hell was this? If I wasn't so annoyed, I would have been impressed. Swarming Lisa, they acted quicker than sharks circling chum. She spooned it out, one compliment chunk at a time.

Simi lapped up my newfound popularity like a thirsty Labrador. "This is wonderful, Jennie. Our profit margins have exploded."

Profit margins exploded at the expense of my deteriorating patience. She beamed when adding four morning classes to my Monday through Friday schedule. I rejected her request to teach on weekends to salvage silent moments and plan for the extra workload.

I should have been thrilled. I should have appreciated the additional funds deposited in my laughable glass savings jar and the expansion opportunity. Instead, I was more bitter than prune juice and saltier than a bucket of parmesan-cheese-coated anchovies. Why? Because Lisa Fucking Chum Bucket Manoban compounded the problem by attending every class.