Sticking To The Basics

The lessons continued on way into the early evening. Unlike our first training session, today's schedule didn't just revolve around one central gimmick like trying to punch my girlfriend in the face on the admittedly dubious premise that it'll net me more experience overall. 

First, Irene did another one of her check-ups on me. I felt fine, honestly, but she insisted, so after a while of my muscles jerking and twitching with every touch of her fingertips, she got her confirmation on what I was already trying to tell her. 

That my breathing was fine, that my bones were as sturdy as ever, and while mentally, perhaps a therapy session or two wouldn't hurt—ultimately, I was me to a tee. 

But I get it. I didn't see what she saw—that zombie-husk shell of myself. The procedure's really more of her own assurance than mine. 

Maybe that's part of the reason why the rest of our session became more theoretical than practical.