In a tiny nutty shell

I sit on the black tile of the gym floor. My shirt plastered to my back. The open window does nothing to relive the hotness of a Chilean summer. My toes elude my grasping fingertips and my inflexibility frustrates my exhausted body. My foot tingles and responds to something my ears do not hear. A smile pulls its way across my face and it strikes me on the floor next to the bench press and stretching mats. I am in Chile. The reggeaton and salsa beats pump in confliction. Their interweaving lightens my body and teeth show through my lips.