Robert Scotellaro

Spin

Swimming in a pool of wet cement, a man forms a crust.  A grainy second skin—slowing under the weight of it like a paddleboat winding down.

Builds the muscles, he says panting his way to the center where it's deepest—the breeze-fanned slop beginning to harden.  Pulls out a gray arm, stiff as the raised limb of a town square statue.

And the cardio, he says—thin, hard layers falling from his cheeks like shale.  You can believe it's kick-ass great for the cardio.  No two ways about it.