A roll of white athletic tape lies on a counter next to a tub of Vaseline. Red leather gloves hang from a metal hook.
Two bare light bulbs dangle through a missing ceiling tile but fail to brighten the windowless room. There is a dull shine to the cracked
vinyl cover of the trainer’s table where he sits quietly, opening and closing his immense hands balling them into fists. He begins to
throw slow punches. The room is warm, and the air is stale, and heat builds under his heavy sweatshirt. He stands and faces the
mirror that hangs by a string wrapped around a single nail. The silver backing is worn, the reflection haphazard. He is brought still
by his image. He moves closer, his face filling the round glass. He dabs a fingertip into the fleshy skin beneath each eye, then runs a
thumb along the scar imbedded in one eyebrow. The arched hairs are divided evenly between an upper and lower prominence. He
pushes his nose comically to one side, letting it snap back to settle quietly under the large bump on his nose. He stretches a smile, his
teeth clenched. The upper tier is full where some teeth are newer. There are two gaps in the lower row, and he bumps a finger
unevenly across them. A scowl for the mirror. He bounces softly on his toes. Shoulders duck and rise, the head bobs and weaves.