he’ll unravel them
and make us start again.”
“I know all those words
individually,” I admit,
“but I still have no idea
what you just said.”
Matt laughs.
“I’ll show you,” he says.
He takes out his phone
and shows me a video
of how you wrap your hand
with a long strip of fabric
before you put on a boxing glove.
Afterward, Matt says,
“I’d really like you
to come to boxing
when your arm is better.”
“Don’t forget about my foot,” I say.
I point to my rainbow-bruised ankle
elevated by colorful cushions.
“How badly does it hurt?” Matt asks,
as he lightly pokes it and I wince.
He doesn’t apologize and I’m relieved.
“Probably as bad as being punched in the face.”
I ball my fist, but Matt doesn’t flinch.
“Has that happened to you yet?” I ask.
“No. We punch the punching bags, not each other.
We haven’t started sparring yet.
We do lots of conditioning work,
like push-ups, sit-ups, and skipping.”
