Kurt eyed the paper on the table in front of him. It seemed like the one-millionth time he had looked at the same paper, and he swore to god if he saw another misspelling of “Virginia” he was going to throw a hiss fit. He held a red correcting pen in his hand loosely and sighed, deciding it would be best for him to take a break from correcting school papers. He looked up at the clock that hung on the wall above the television. He had already spent about four hours correcting papers. Kurt stood up from the couch he had been sitting on, leaving the papers and pen on the table, and looked around the apartment living room. He had to get out of there, if only for a couple hours. He had kept himself cooped up in the small, two bedroom apartment everyday for the past month, just working on lesson plans or correcting work sheets and tests. Things were getting way too dull, even for him.

Kurt slowly walked over to the bedroom door of his room mate, Brock Lesnar, and knocked on it, not waiting for a response and just opening the door enough to poke his head in. Brock looked over from the side of his bed, large dumbbells in his hands.

“Hey, wanna go to the gym or something?” Kurt asked, saying the first thing that came to mind. Brock looked at him blankly, his blue eyes staring a whole through him.

“If I remember correctly, I’m not allowed there anymore because of a specific incident having to do with a rude customer and a bottle.” Brock said as he put his dumbbells down. Kurt groaned and slapped his hand over his face.

“Right! Sorry, I’m spacing. I’m sorry.” Kurt apologized quickly. He couldn’t believe he had just forgotten about Brock just about killing the customer who had thrown a bottle at his head. “Well...you wanna go for a jog or something? Around the block maybe?” Kurt asked.

“Nah,” Brock declined. “I’m just going to hang out here.”

“Okay...” Kurt sighed and then pulled the door shut. He stood in the center of the living room for a moment, his hands on his hips. Maybe he should just stay in and finish those papers. He didn’t have to go jogging. He was a school teacher, and he certainly wasn’t getting paid to look like an athlete. He went back over to the couch, about to get back to work on the papers but stopping before he could even sit down. He picked up his blue, zip-up, hooded sweat shirt from the couch and headed towards the door, exiting the apartment before he could change his mind.

He slipped the sweat shirt on as he walked down the hall way, and zipped it up as he made his way down the stairs. He pushed the door open at the bottom of the stair case, walking out into the cold winter night. He stood there for a few moments, looking at his surroundings, taking everything in. The cold stung his nose. He pulled his hood up over his bald head, protecting the flesh from the fresh flakes of snow falling from the sky. Maybe he would got to the gym as he had originally planned. He had the time, so why not? With that he began his jog down the street, heading off towards the gym that wasn’t too far away.