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Nothing.

It’s why when I slowly start to lower, attempting to curtsy down to the ground, my body instead decides to give out on me, seizing in every which way.

Oh no.

Lady down . . . I barely have enough time to pin point where I’m landing before I flop straight on top of the chest of the one and only, Graydon St. John.

“Oof, fuck, what are you doing?” he asks.

Great question.

The only answer that comes to mind is . . .death.

I’m dead.

The fish has flopped and has found the end of their life.

There is nothing left inside me.

There is no shame.

There is no humiliation.

There is no . . . stamina or fucks to give as I lay lifeless on top of Graydon.

Nope, this is where I live now.

This is my new home.

Pull up a potted plant and a picture of a flamingo, because I don’t foresee myself moving in the foreseeable future.

“Hello?” he pokes, trying to get me to answer him.

Mumbling, I say, “I live here now.”

“The fuck you do.”

To my surprise, he lifts me by the shoulders, like I’m one of those wind socks at a car dealership, and flops me to the side, so my head is now right next to his hip.

“Jesus Christ, why aren’t you . . . folding properly?”

I stare up at the fluorescent lights, angels singing to me, pulling me into the heavens where I know I will feel no more pain.

“Is this what death feels like?”

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters as he slides away from me, stands and then looks down at me. “Are you serious right now?”

I blink a few times, his dark gaze breaking me away from my attempt to fly into a safe space where I will no longer feel. “I . . .I don’t foresee myself getting up from here. Please tell Phil to find someone worthy enough to look after my pink-feathered friends.”

He rolls his eyes and then bends down and drags me by the legs, straightening me out across the mat. Then he lifts one of my ankles, kneels between my legs, and holds one down while pushing the other up.

“What on earth are you doing?” I ask as his entire body crowds the juncture between my thighs. “I tell you death is knocking on my door, rigor mortis firmly taking hold, and you get
me into a sexual position?”

His brow cocks up. “I’m stretching you so I don’t have to explain to my coach why there’s a woman face planted in our weight room.”

“I am not face planted.”

“You will be in a second.” He switches legs, making me holler in pain as he stretches the muscles that I thought no longer existed inside me.

“Just leave me for dead. Have them scoop me up with a shovel and deposit me in the back of a garbage truck. Please give my pitiful savings to a bench that sits in front of the flamingos. And for the love of God, tell Big Hermy he was my favorite.”

He rolls his eyes once more and then in one fell swoop, he turns me on my stomach and starts stretching my quads.

“Mother of God,” I shout, burying my head into the mat, a mat that is probably infested with things like ringworm and imprinted with sweaty man balls. But it’s my solace right now, my peace, the only thing keeping me from losing all sense of control.

Oh dear sweet mat, please swallow me into your sanctuary where hairy backs and moist ass cracks find solace. 

Graydon spends the next few minutes stretching me out, maneuvering me around like his own personal lump of Play-Doh, and then, when he’s done, he lifts me to my feet and holds
me by the shoulders, keeping me in place until he finds that I’m steady enough to walk on my own.

“You good?”

I sway for a few moments, and when the darkness around my vision recedes, I slowly nod. “I think so.”

He grumbles under his breath and then takes off for the exit, but when I don’t follow him, he stops. “For the love of God, keep up.”

I take one step forward and feel that my leg can handle it, so I take another, and another, and find myself very slowly, walking toward him.

Thatta girl. 

“I told you not to do the fucking workout.”