He’d gotten used to life’s little jabs, knew enough to keep his hands up and head down, so most glanced off to the side.
Stepping into it, moving forward, forging ahead.
He imagine his spirit as burnished steel. Sharp lines and angles.
Sometimes life worked the body. Looking for an opening. Looking to knock the wind right out of you. So he stayed tense, flexing, muscles tense and pushing, as he exhaled.
There was always the threat of a haymaker. Looking to dent. To rent. To split and splint this armour he wore. But you couldn’t just wait for it.