“I don’t know, it just seems a little far-fetched,” a man rustled his haggard stubble in the driver’s seat, having parked his silver pickup in front of a gym. Grand Opening read on a red banner above the window.

Morse wasn’t built for impact sports. Years of telling himself to hold himself back, not to hurt anybody when upset, culminating into muffled screams. They battered inside his skull, begging, pleading, bargaining for their freedom.

He insisted, “You’re telling me to exercise when excited, and let out these emotions which only cause harm. You know what happens when I do that, right? People get hurt. People hurt me.”

His best friend of fifteen years sat next to him, hugging one leg and leaning forward.

“Experience has been cruel to you, Morse. I think you’re lumping together all the times that didn’t work in your favor, even though they really don’t have much in common. You’re your own worst critic; you can’t deny that much.”

He hadn’t met a curtain as kind as her before, but the shimmering waves of woodsy golden sway were no stranger to firsts.

Each syllable, another swish withheld. There must have been a maintenance team of gnomes hidden behind the frond facade, seeming to move only when willed to do so.

Shaking himself from the tendril trance, Morse blurted back, “Will you stop that? I swear, I can’t tell what you’re thinking when you try so hard to see right through me. I can’t even look you in the eyes, Chel!”

The tawny topiary trembled a giggle, “Maybe you could grow yours out, and we could muse as mop-heads together! Listen, just give it a try, alright? I’ll drive you back, and cook up something good if you clean up afterward. Deal?”

Morse’s bottomed-out belly pleaded protest with a grumbling growl, and he softened as he averted his eyes.

“Alright, but I’m grabbing protein bar first.”

“Why you like the flavor of dirt, is beyond me.”

“Just try and keep up when I’m juiced!”

“Oh, it’s on!”

Car doors slam shut as two playful idiots fumble their boxing tape.