Practice makes perfect. He'd heard that homily countless times, in countless variations, especially from his mother. "You'll never be really good at something unless you practice," she used to say to him when he was growing up. He took it to heart—in all things.
May was good, really good. He watched her almost balletic movements, observing the way her muscles moved— in unison—grace and strength combined. He saw the look of concentration on her face, tempered by the calm spirit that he'd come to associate with her. She was, it seemed to him, never out of control, always a bit restrained, always holding back a part of herself, a secret part. Knowing this, made watching her even better.
At first he believed he made his observations surreptitiously, but now he knew that she was completely aware. Her smile, judiciously bestowed, told him so. Now she turned fully to face him. The sunlight streaming through the window illuminated the dark hues of her hair.
"Well?" she asked and waited.
He was caught.
"Care to join me?" Her voice softened.
He removed his shoes, and joined her on the mat. "Best three out of five?" He hoped he could prolong their time together. A subtle lift of her eyebrow told him she took it as a challenge. She nodded slightly and assumed a sparring stance.
"Why not? I suspect you enjoy the practice."