I’m doing push-ups—a whole twenty in a row for me (on my toes!), a new personal record—to get ready to march over to Michael’s place and knock that door right down.
I figure if I get a good muscle pump going, in effect making myself look bigger than I actually am, a total puffer fish move, I can somehow (irrationally so) intimidate Michael into forgiving me for lying about my job, and my secret online identity.
I squeeze out one more push-up, my chest muscles in agony so that I have to extend my arms out and back to stretch out the tightness there, sitting on my knees when the knock on the door comes.
Food. Glorious food.
I’m going to eat a healthy meal so I don’t say anything out of hangriness to Michael, to spit out what I want to say, because this whole winging it thing has me nerv
