Page 44 of Let's Kiss and Tell

“It’s easier than you think.” I swivel around him. “The punches aren’t mirrored. It’s the same hands you would be using if you were punching.”

“Okay.” He takes a breath. “I can try.”

I pass him the mitts and put on my bright red boxing gloves. A gift that I gave to myself for my birthday. We get into position again and he watches in concentration.

“Just call out whatever you’re comfortable with,” I say, and he nods.

“One, two,” he calls out, and I give him sharp jabs. There’s a slight curl in his mouth and he leans in. “One, two, three, four, one, one, block.”

I’m impressed. I then begin to follow his combo, huffing at every punch, staying light on my feet. Maybe now I’m the one trying to impress him.

“Five, six, five, six, five six,” he says, and I give him my most powerful uppercuts. “One,” he says, and I jump forward with a jab. “One,” he says again, and he moves across the ring and I follow him.

“Can I try one?” I ask him. Normally the person wearing the mitts calls the shots, but I want to see if we can do a combo that I love.

“Please,” he says.

“Okay…” I say carefully. “One, three, two, one, two, one, catch…five, two, three.”

He laughs. “You have a lot of confidence in me.”

“You can do it.” I smile. “I’ll call it out in real time.” We start and then I’m the one who misses an uppercut. “Shit,” I spit out. I’m sweating underneath my crewneck. I take it off and throw it to the side of the ring.

I notice Marsh’s eyes lingering on me. My black sports bra that matches my shorts is now revealed. I can feel the sheen of sweat across my chest and in the crevice underneath.

“Ready?” I ask.

He coughs and his eyes dart back up to mine. “Yeah.”

We continue to spar for the next fifteen minutes, and I find myself cornered in one of the ropes.

“One, two,” Marsh says, and my punches come out weaker. I’m tired. “Come on, one two again,” he says.

“Fuck,” I breathe out. “I can’t.”

“Keep going,” he says.

“I’m too tired.” I shake my head, but he keeps his mitts up.

This is what boxing is. Pushing yourself to your next level, showing yourself that you’re resilient. I punch, grunting. I can feel the hairs from my ponytail getting stuck on the dampness from my shoulders.

“Harder,” he says.

“Marsh,” I pant.

“Harder.”

“Marsh,” I cry and throw another punch.

“Harder,” he demands.

I oblige and punch one last time then collapse into the middle of the ring. “I’m done,” I wail. My chest heaves up and down and my legs spread out like a starfish.

“Good job,” he says, leaning against the ropes, watching me.

“Help me stretch?” I ask, but Marsh just stays in place, playing with his mitts. He’s watching me and I can see his eyes traveling up and down my body, but he doesn’t say anything. “Marsh, please.”

He pushes himself off the ropes and leans down. I throw one leg over the other until my body feels like a towel being wrung out. “Push,” I say.