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The conversation turned back to Koil and we chatted about his alter ego Brandon Barlow.
Sensing my utter naiveté, Jen put it in laymen’s terms: every superhero had a human alias. Spider-Man was Peter Parker, Batman was Bruce Wayne, Koil was Brandon Barlow, etc.
Though I’d picked up on that from watching the first movie, I appreciated Jen’s non-judgmental way of explaining things to me.
Our conversation lasted the rest of the flight. We parted ways after grabbing our luggage and I had a newfound respect for this world to which I had been introduced.
It was a literal two-and-a-half-hour crash course.
When the Uber dropped me off at the hotel, I decided to forgo finding my room first. I needed to see E.
Excitement had been slowly building within me; it was a low hum that had turned into a buzz and it was hard to ignore.
E texted me her room number while I was waiting for the driver. Taking a left out of the elevator, I followed the hallway until I found it.
She opened after the third knock and leaned against the door.
“You made it!” She looked me up and down with a strange look on her face.
Before she could inquire as to the state of my shirt, I blurted, “I think I like this nerd stuff!”
Her steel blue eyes shrunk into tiny slits, the disbelief evident.
Explaining the immersive encounter I had on the plane and the free lessons on Koil 101, she laughed.
She crossed her arms and challenged me. “Ok, hot stuff. If you’re afannow, show me Koil’s signature move.”
I knew this! Jen had pulled up a clip on YouTube and showed me earlier. I’d show E and all would be right in the world, or my world, I guess.
All I had to do was stoop into a shallow squat, lift my arm, jump and come down with unimaginable force with my fist in the ground. Obviously, I wouldn’t do the latter because who would want to smash their hand on the floor?
Tossing my purse on the carpet and scooting my suitcase out of the way—because if I was going to do this, I was going toownit—I got in position.
Low squat?Achieved.
Lifting my arm?Done.Why did I feel a draft though?
Jump?Call me Michael Jordan.
Fake fist smash?Accentuated with a convincing battle cry.
Standing up to get E’s approval.Not so much.
E’s eyebrows were raised so high I was afraid they were going to hit the ceiling. I knew I’d nail it, but I didn’t I realize I wasthatgood.
“Pretty good, yeah?” Cue the praise in 3, 2, 1…
Her eyes darted to my stomach, which I thought was odd; this move had been all about the fist smash, not flexing my abs.
But I followed her line of sight to my midsection to find it completely exposed, the hem of my tee somehow stuck to the wispy hairs around my ear that had come loose from my bun. And I was standing there flashing her in my most see-through bralette.
“Nice bra,” she commented, unable to keep the smirk from forming on her pristine face.
“Honey.”
“No, I’m E, but thanks for the pet name.”
“Ugh, no. I got honey all over my shirt at the airport,” I told her, whining. “And now it’s stuck in my hair.”
