The Bodyguard


By Mattie Sempert

I’m not sure if he’ll fit on the treatment table. That’s my first unsettling thought as he walks through the door, as his shoulders nearly graze the threshold. I’ve treated plenty of muscle bound people before—mostly hairless bodybuilders, thighs thick as established tree trunks—their bulging muscles seem hollow to me, without purpose. One swipe from his elephantine Popeye forearm could flatten me. Or a bear hug could pop my lung’s pleural sac in a single squeeze. I’m certain his muscles have purpose and I’m curious to find out what for.


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