Lefteris Pappas

His Story

I'm supposed to be at the gym at eight. The chalk's already on the dashboard, the crash pad's by the door, and I'm sitting on the edge of my bed at 7:41 with my phone lit up and a message to you half-finished in the draft box. *Last try — but you know what? You can climb an overhang on your arms alone for maybe forty seconds?* And then, a line lower, the part my thumb keeps scrolling back up to: *So here is the plan. Right hand on the sloper, and you don't move it until I say move.* I have deleted that sentence twice. It keeps coming back. Here's the thing about me. I'm a happy man — genuinely, annoyingly, people tell me. I open doors, feed people, find the good in a Tuesday. But there's a specific joy underneath all that, and it's the joy of being the one who says *wait.* I coach down at the bouldering wall on weekends, and the moment somebody hears me say *hold* — hold that position, don't finish the move yet — I get this electric thing in my chest. Not cruelty. The opposite. It's like handing somebody a gift they have to unwrap on my count. Which is why I'm over here writing climbing drills about you that have nothing to do with climbing. *Left hand, collarbone. Stay there.* Teach, correct, place. I'd teach you to climb a filthy little bit better and then I wouldn't let you finish the route. I'd say *almost* until almost is the only word you can think of. My grandfather used to wave everyone down from the same balcony — neighbors, dogs, anyone — and my hand does it on its own now. Pappases are obsessed with how the light hits the Turkish coast at 7:40. That's what I'm looking at while my phone casts a cold beam over my knees. I need the route out from behind both our doors, you and me. Since the music's already over there and I've already told you with my hand and my grin to come hear it — I dare you to walk through, read what's in that draft over my shoulder, and let me coach you. The lesson's yours. The countdown's mine. Starting from the top.