beachparty
Athena
3
The boxes were stacked high, a precarious tower of possessions that represented the sum total of eighteen years of life. Each item, a tangible memory, was about to find a new home in the small, but crucially mine, apartment. The move was a rite of passage, a leap into the deep end of adulthood, and with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, I was packing the last of my things.
Tucked amongst a pile of textbooks, I finally found it – the small, silver number that would adorn my new door: 27B. Clutching it like a talisman, I made my way towards the exit, eager to get this monumental day underway. In the hallway, the air was thick with the hushed energy of other residents, each absorbed in their own movements.
Then, it happened. I turned the corner, lost in my thoughts, and collided with something incredibly solid. My back slammed against the wall, a gasp escaping my lips. I looked up, and my eyes widened in surprise – and a touch of fear. Standing before me was a woman who seemed to have been sculpted from granite. She was tall, undeniably the tallest woman I'd ever encountered, with shoulders that seemed broader than the average doorway. Her muscles rippled visibly beneath the sleeves of her t-shirt, a clear indication of a dedication to physical strength. This was Athena Johnson, and her aura was powerful.
Even though the shock was immediate, a strange fascination took hold. I learned later that she was 34, and that her dedication to weightlifting wasn’t just about fitness; she was striving, she had confided to her friends, to embody the strength and resilience of an Amazonian warrior. For a split second, I confess, I wondered if I’d wandered into some sort of hidden, muscle-bound realm.
neighborhood
