Vicariously Yours,

Mutably Hunting

The top grain leather heavy duty canvas that was wrapped around the punching bag looked smug.

Marcelo stood in his boxing stance. His feet were shoulder-distance apart and staggered with one foot in front of the other. Untangling the rippling emotions inside him, his hands in quality pair of orange boxing gloves with extra padding were positioned, prepared to punch. One as always, protecting his face.

Throwing two punches in quick succession as he jabbed with his left arm and then crossing with his right. Shifting his weight forward, using the force of his weight to catapult his fist to the bag. The pressure was hard and jerking.
Completing that punch, his hand returned to its position in front of his face. Immediately, shifting his weight to the starting position to set for another powerful cross.

He continued this for full forty five seconds, before his body leaked with more sweat.

As he strike his right foot powerfully out, extending his knee and hip, hitting the heavy bag with the heel of his right foot. It thundered his whole leg. Recoiling back down to starting position and did the same with the other leg and did about twenty to forty more side kicks punch combos.

When he worked out, he didn't think of nothing but feelings. He just felt them going up his arms and legs and freeing them through his punches. They were living rushing souls ready to leave from his fists and feet which he wants to let go of.

But does one ever empty out all their emotions until nothing is left?

Finally done for the day, his tank top sopping wet. Marcelo made his way back to the changing locker rooms. Feeling his bald head hot and sweaty, he rubbed it like one would to a lamp.

The changing room wasn't that cramped as he moved to his locker. Slipping out of the wet tank, he dropped his wet shorts and headed straight to the shower with a towel hanging down his shoulder. Ten minutes in the stall later, he returned with the wrapped towel around his hips, opening his locker door, he took out his joggers and yanked them on.

"DeVito, I saw your girl yesterday." Said a voice Marcelo recognized as belonging to Randy, his good buddy from college. He was trainer here at Eagle Gym, helped out in training Marcelo often. With his height, tattooed arms and buzz cut, he looked like some drug lord but unlike Marcelo, he was pretty too. The amount of women who flung themselves onto him, Randy never did let them down until recently, he has been under a dry spell due to some red-headed chick ignoring him.

It's always the indifference that makes a man follow. Sweetie pie who was made delicious for men but won't let them have a taste got their engine running. Marcelo wasn't like that but then again, he knew otherwise.

Isabella wasn't ignoring him in order to make him run after her. She was not responding to him because of something that connects to her past which he needs to undo whatever it may be. He had made it his mission to see to it.

There was nothing off about it. He was only tantalized by her demeanor and herself. She was too smart for his own good and he be a fool to take her up as a challenge. She wasn't going to make it easy and why in the world was he doing this? It's not like he cared for her. It's not like he liked her. Yes, he lusted after her heavily. Too deeply. That's just about it.

Although, seeing those photos of her, her stiff smiles, how she mumbled about her mother being in hell and her not knowing her biological father. What did that mean? Did she know of a step dad that married her mom? But how was she in hell? It wasn't making any sense. Sensing where his thoughts were going, he stopped them.