Page 38 of Bewitch

“Are you the one being paid to be a personal fitness trainer or am I? Maybe I know what I’m talking about.”

“Or maybe you just hate fat people and are using your position of authority to bully us.”

“Hmm. Seems like I struck a nerve.”

“Trust me. I can handle anything and everything you throw my way,” I tell him. “A little bullying won’t hurt me.”

“That so? Let’s see about that. Get on the bench.”

I sit on it.

“Lie down,” he says.

“No weights?” I ask, confused.

“There will be weight,” he says.

And he starts to remove the plates from the Olympic bar from where it rests just behind the bench.

“Move the bench back more,” he says.

I comply, and once I’m situated again, he removes the last plate.

“Grab it. Get a nice solid grip. Are your feet on the floor?”

“I’m not that short!”

“You want to have a nice base of support. Press your feet into the floor. Now, pick up the bar.”

I do, or at least I try to. It’s so much heavier than I expected it to be.

“People add more weight to this?” I mutter.

“Yes. The goal is to add more and more weight. Heavier and heavier.”

“Yeah, um…”

“Pick it up,” he says. “Or can’t you?”

“I’m trying!”

“Straighten your arms. Hold the bar up high.”

“I’m—”

“If you call that trying…”

“Fuck,” I mutter.

And I push and lift the bar.

“Good. Now, lower it down until it just touches your chest.”

“You have got to be bullshitting me.” I gasp as the bar starts to dip, lowering on my left side, my weak side.

“Straighten it out first,” he snaps. “Use your muscles. You have been building some, haven’t you?”

“Building up something all right. Hatred.”

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