Day one, new semester. I see homie Sarah again for the first time in months which entails the appropriate hi five and hug.
“Oh my god, you got some muscle now,” Sarah notices while prodding me with her finger like Fist of the Northstar. More muscle, indeed.
She clutches the arm extending from the body of a former 120-lb stick from June to the 124-lb muscular September specimen before her.
A petite girl, yet one who cannot be underestimated as she squeezes with the grip of a man twice her size. She tests the tensile strength of the new muscle she’s trying to crush like a tube of toothpaste. The newly found bicep passes her test.
“Yo...” I classily semi-exclaim, more surprised than injured. Sarah witnesses the expression of acceptance and awe at her strength. Thusly, she retreats into a Jeet Kun Do stance, morphing into Tiger style, apparently to suggest her knowledge of fighting forms or 80s Channel 5 Saturday afternoon Kung Fu flicks.
“That’s why you don’t mess with me,” she proclaims while moving her hands in the form of blades not unlike a T-1000.
“I got a room full of numbchucks and swords at home for the insolent.”