Like it is

I'm punching the punch bag, she's watching me from the corner, sandaled feet curled underneath the bench, hair in her eyes.

I'm trying that one-two combination my trainer has drilled into me, and cringe slightly at the impact of bones with leather. He called me "Biscotta" because I'm as weak as a wafer, and he said I punched like a girl. I didn't point out the obvious.

I try to hit the bag without breaking a knuckle (reminding myself that This Is A Good Work Out), and out of the corner of my eye, I see she's started to scribble furiously into her black notebook, head bent, black strands of hair falling like a curtain over the paper, shielding my eyes from her words, but I'm too blind to see that far.

I know she's writing about me. I can tell by the way she keeps sneaking looks at my red face, especially when I stop for breath and stare at the silent, hostile sandbag.

I bet she's found a deep, symbolic meaning in my movements, in the feeble attempts I make to act less like a biscuit and more like a menacing female. I bet she's wondering what I'm thinking.

The truth is, I'm not. I have an amazing ability to space out and daze off with my eyes wide open. She should know this, being my friend.

I bet it confuses a lot of people, since I usually zone out with an intense frown on my face; I could be staring right at you, but really I'm off in LaLa Land thinking about absolutely nothing.

I'm a little embarrassed to tell her this, knowing her writing might glorify me into a wonderfully complex and beautiful creature, and hey, right now I wouldn't mind the flattery, especially after the whole "Biscotta" incident.

She will say I'm taking my ex-anger out on the bag, but I'm not.
I did come to the gym a couple of times right after I got dumped, and pretended to beat the bag to a pulp, which felt good, and I ended up with bruised knuckles, which made me proud, but since then I haven't done the whole angry dumpee thing much.

And I've realized that I really am a biscuit, I don't like hitting and I definitely don't like being hit back; I have a tendency to burst into tears at the poor guy who 's unlucky enough to be my partner, and squeal:
"I'm a girl! Why did you have to hit me so hard?"

which always causes a lot of red-faced mumbling and confusion on his part.

I bet she'll write of my bravery, standing up to the bag, facing my demons, etc. etc. etc., but it doesn't take a scientist to see how much of a wuss I am.
I'd like to live up to her image of me, but the golden glory is a little too much to bear.

I am a girl, who gets angry, and lashes out, then gets hurt, and hides, and laughs a lot, and thinks a little.
But more than anything, I tell it like it is and try very very hard not to take myself too seriously. And as my friend, I hope she would do the same.

I give up on the workout (I should go back to yoga), walk over to her, pick up my towel, as she shuts her notebook firmly with a loud click, and pulls her curtain-hair back.

"You done?" she asks, as I pull off the sweaty, stinking boxing gloves.

"I'm done," I sigh and pick up my bag, "You got everything?"

"Yep," she smiles smugly, and I know she thinks she does.

We walk out of the gym, I sneak a look at the bag behind me, and I know she doesn't.