it can be rather exhausting, sitting in a room filled with strangers, trying to mind your own business, but really, honestly, all you can think about is everyone one else around you. you try your best not to fidget, not to move suspiciously nor cause any undue attention to your person since, to do so would be counter-productive, counter-productive to this game you had begun to play, to be this pretend-person, this unreal imaginary figure, who seemed to be completely detached from his present surroundings, but in truth, he is so immersed in it, it almost feels like he's drowning.
you hold your chin level, almost parallel to the wooden floor. this was your default, nonchalant position. you keep your head erect, your shoulders low, your arms loose as you do not want to look intimidating despite your bulky frame. you try to keep your form looking relaxed, even if your entire body is ready to jump at the slightest nudge. you control your breathing, almost to a maniacal degree. one breath every 2 seconds, you exhale with mouth agape. you toy with your ankle, and twist it around like drawing small circles in the air, a way to distract, you thought, to keep people's attention away from the nervousness that is beginning to show on your face, but at the same time, to draw attention to yourself, like winding back the line to the spool, the hook, you sense, is now in place.
it starts from the feet, from the tensing of the ligaments of the toes, their force marked on the thin skin that fails to hide them. it leads up to the leg, to the flushed calves and the engorged shin, now pink with blood, beads of sweat outlining the sharp bone that cuts through its length. it continues on to the muscular thighs, to thin valleys and fine troughs that score its surface like ripples of ungodly enchantment. you feel the slow crescendo of your heart, pulsing to an audible beat. it throbs in your head, on your neck, through your chest, down your gut, lower, deeper, harder, stronger. the hips then tighten. the torso reacts. you feigned a spasm and shift your position. and just like that, you cut the line and let the catch go.
good game.
you hold your chin level, almost parallel to the wooden floor. this was your default, nonchalant position. you keep your head erect, your shoulders low, your arms loose as you do not want to look intimidating despite your bulky frame. you try to keep your form looking relaxed, even if your entire body is ready to jump at the slightest nudge. you control your breathing, almost to a maniacal degree. one breath every 2 seconds, you exhale with mouth agape. you toy with your ankle, and twist it around like drawing small circles in the air, a way to distract, you thought, to keep people's attention away from the nervousness that is beginning to show on your face, but at the same time, to draw attention to yourself, like winding back the line to the spool, the hook, you sense, is now in place.
it starts from the feet, from the tensing of the ligaments of the toes, their force marked on the thin skin that fails to hide them. it leads up to the leg, to the flushed calves and the engorged shin, now pink with blood, beads of sweat outlining the sharp bone that cuts through its length. it continues on to the muscular thighs, to thin valleys and fine troughs that score its surface like ripples of ungodly enchantment. you feel the slow crescendo of your heart, pulsing to an audible beat. it throbs in your head, on your neck, through your chest, down your gut, lower, deeper, harder, stronger. the hips then tighten. the torso reacts. you feigned a spasm and shift your position. and just like that, you cut the line and let the catch go.
good game.
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