forty-five minutes of step coordinated to sixteen beat divisions of 80’s songs: “the locomotion”, “thriller” were interrupted by the blurred passing of a candy blue, dilapidated train that rumbled by the studio's wide windows, drowning out our perky instructor’s directives step was followed by 15 minutes of hooking, crossing, bobbing and weaving to dramatic, rocky-esque music Abs were to follow, concentration on the task of reverse curl was broken by a terse knock from outside of the emergency exit instructor allowed Legs to collapse, jogged over to answer dividing the length of her Waist, the mic belt was still velcro'd, amplifying: “you’re kidding” (later she’d remember, with sadness, the inappropriateness of those words) disaster lurked through the lavender door, spandexed ladies were too Nosy to be bashful they filed in and out disregarding sweat-wetted Crotches and sports' bras sitting on my mat, concerned with the fate of my workout, i watched others’ concerned Brows and imagined their silent thanks: nobody they knew sirens approached, surely we, the dedicated a.m. exercisers, with our appropriately elevated Heart rates, were collectively appalled that five minutes ago we’d been worried about how our Thighs jiggled during sidekicks while we aimed our Soles at our own mirrored Faces, how the aerobic studio’s fans radiated garlicky b.o. varying from my preferred route on the way home, i turned left to see whether the tragedy was worthy of the commotion neighbors stood on tipToe next to leashed miniature dogs to peek over parked, flashing police cars there i beheld the Head, resting on a bed of wood between the rails, the Body, laying to the right of the tracks amongst burger king litter and early fall leaves the pale, flacid Stomach shone where the green shirt had blown up with the passing of the train these intuitive, cardio-stepping women, with all their talk about “energy”, had missed the spiritual notification: this tortured man lay here, just twenty minutes ago, determined enough to camouflage his Skin in cotton clothing dyed green and brown, waiting for the tardy train’s arrival to release his grateful soul to some unknown refuge after escaping through the gaping Neckhole in our sanctified, aerobicized midst, so close that Something rattled the windows in our studio of self conscious masochism