The kevlar atheist believes he is ten foot tall and bullet proof. With tobacco, booze, and year round construction jobs, he has spent a lifetime making his body resilient to carcinogens, bar fights, and inclement weather. As a child he made sure to toughen up his heart, to protect it from injury, from loss.
When the kevlar atheist hits the gym, he hits it hard. It is him alone against the weights. When his muscles have warmed up, music and adrenaline pumping his veins, he feels his body soften. His muscles loosen; he is at harmony with the steel plates he lifts, the water he drinks. Something peaceful flows through him, although you would not be able to tell. He grimaces and swears with every rep. His personal language of love.
When he raises himself to the chin up bar, his shoulders burn. His hands explore the familiar bar and he elevates himself once more. From this height, he can see over the entire gym. His shoulders ache in exactly the spot an angel would grow its wings.
