Cheer Practice

In a cramped office haze, therapy winds down. Tight shots catch middle-aged Tom fidgeting on the couch, foot twitching like a live wire. His shrink drills in the core fix: wrangle those behaviors, pinpoint the triggers that could blow it all sky-high, map out a lockdown to dodge future wreckage. Tom mutters agreement, his urges for 'those kinds of dames' reined in since the big move. But that fresh neighborhood tease, Kim, stirs the pot—steer clear, and he'll starve the beast. Vague words hint at his dark rap sheet, court-mandated couch time. Session seals with a log scribble, firm handshake. Tom's mug flashes raw as he bolts. Cut to his silent drive, pulling into the complex shadows. He snags his book, stalks past the units. There—Kim, the siren in her skimpy cheer skirt, flipping and chanting on the lawn like forbidden bait. Throat tightens; eyes drop. She clocks him, freezes mid-routine, then bolts to the fence, hips swaying with reckless promise, her gaze locking like a trap snapping shut.