#2221 HOT HOUSE
He wrestles at 145, and I go watch him February Saturdays when it's ten degrees and snow out, but you walk into the field house and it's so warm like the beach half the team has their shirts off or singlets pushed down.
He lives on one of my bus routes and smoulders on the bench seat way in back until I started to leave him off right in front of his house. Whaddya gonna do when season's over? I ask. Eat, he says, Eat.