Villainess's Sweet Everyday

I get off the bike and wipe my face with a fistowel hung on my shoulder. The moisture in the moist skin is gently sucked away. A painful breath emanates from the back of my throat. It's like he's obnoxious.

For dozens of minutes, a man who had been working out his spine with apparatus before I pedaled him continued with a ball-like sweat on his face, well, I guess he has some spare time, he continues.

I aim to flutter and bench. A soldier offers me a sports drink softly, lowering his head and pouring the cap into the threaded opening.

"Huh."

My leg pain is demanding a break when I lower my back on the bench, and it doesn't matter, I think. The appliance is not very empty. There are about three rows of people lined up, but there are mostly users.