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07/23/2022
Lessthanzero
13 Reviews
Lessthanzero
1
Needlessly poetic review
The year is 1919. The setting is London; a members only club. There is a gymnasium. The ceiling of the cavernous room is double height, and bright white light pours in from clerestory windows. The walls are plaster, the floors oak, and here and there are rudimentary fitness tools and machines, all cast iron.
An athlete sits on a bench facing a pommel horse, its leather worn and patinated with sweat. The athlete wears a white cotton vest tucked into white cotton pants. The athlete wraps his hands with linen bandages. He is tired from training, and sweat drips from his brow on to the dusty floor.
His coach, smelling of fresh pipe smoke, approaches from the side. He reaches out and smears the athlete’s neck and shoulders with a greasy salve. The athlete’s head drops forward as the room fills with the smell of hot, icy camphor from Siam.
An athlete sits on a bench facing a pommel horse, its leather worn and patinated with sweat. The athlete wears a white cotton vest tucked into white cotton pants. The athlete wraps his hands with linen bandages. He is tired from training, and sweat drips from his brow on to the dusty floor.
His coach, smelling of fresh pipe smoke, approaches from the side. He reaches out and smears the athlete’s neck and shoulders with a greasy salve. The athlete’s head drops forward as the room fills with the smell of hot, icy camphor from Siam.
