He hits the bag hard, trying to get his mind to obey, to focus. To stop thinking.
Stop thinking about her.
It's been a while since he did this. The first punch recoiling from his linen wrapped knuckles shooting sharply back to his palm as the flash of pain reverberates to his wrist. Barely grimacing, he raises his other fist to hit the bag.
Steadily he keeps punching at the bag, feeling the tension and frustration ebbing away from his body with each deft blow. Every time he strikes, he can only see her face; oblivious and beautiful and each time the anger re-merges fresh and undaunted.
But the bag is not serving her purpose. He could never do something like that, not even in his imagination. Plus it's not her who he is angry at.
He's so angry with himself, angry for being so utterly and helplessly transparent. Where was his ease of deception? That which comes so easily to him, almost like second nature fails him so miserably when it comes to her.
He's making a complete fool of himself and that isn't even the worst part.
No, that would be the fact that everyone knows that. Well except her, but she never notices anything.
The sweat beads are beginning to appear on his temple, traveling an uncomfortable path down his face. His knuckles are starting to go numb from the exertion. But he keeps at it.
There's this great girl he has, whom he likes and who likes him and doesn't frown at him for suggesting body painting. She's as good as they come and he honestly doesn't want to screw it up with her.
But there's her of course. All it takes is one hot (okay really hot) Indian guy to get him all riled up. To act like some weird stalker who can recall at the drop of the hat that bothersome but adorable shade of blush that her cheeks assume when she was talking to him and ever agonizing brush of his skin against hers.
He's already being way too careless. There's simply no defense or guard that seems to stop the overwhelming bout of jealousy that comes out every time it looks like she'll slip away from him.
He's completely powerless to control that.
He's doing such a bad job of this; of being over her. Of not letting her get to him. Why should it be so hard? She's not with him. He's with someone else. It's as simple as that.
He hits harder this time, causing the skin to break and a tiny little gash to appear. It barely hurts anymore. He just ups the pace, ignoring the definite strain that has crept into his hands.
He shouldn't be scared to death and feel like he would lose his mind when some crazy psycho thrusts a knife near her neck. He shouldn't be getting soft eyed and weird when someone calls her a 'random co-worker'. He should especially not be so stupid to slip up in front of that someone and say things like "She's not random.".
Someone is bound to get suspicious…
He heaves a sigh as he finally stops: breathing heavily, he slumps against the swinging bag, unwrapping the linen strip slowly to uncover bruised, bleeding knuckles. He looks at them in surprise. Obviously, he'd overdone it without even realizing. His bare chest soaking wet with sweat, slips against the vinyl skin of the bag, as he slumps to the ground.
He's good at lying, at hiding things: at letting the lighter side of him make the emotional stuff invisible. But with her, there are just too many tells. It can't be buried no matter how hard he tries.
Unless he got over her.
Yeah right!
Grimacing at his mutilated hands, which are now hurting like hell in the absence of emotional anesthesia, he stares above him.
It looks like he was going to be doing this more often.
