Air exhaled from the lungs (as made manifest by smell or sight); gen. air inspired or expired in respiration.
He could almost hear her voice in his head.
"Breathe. OK, now hold it."
He looked at the wall clock. Four seconds to the hour. He clamped his lips shut. Ordinarily he let himself breathe out, but this time, it would be regulation. Nothing in, nothing out.
It surprised him how fast he became uncomfortable. Can you even imagine it--the vague sense of ill ease in your arms and legs that grows stronger every second? When he looked at the clock next it was only 30 seconds past the hour. "I'm not going to make it," he thought.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head way back, resting it on the back of the chair, thinking that maybe this way he could last longer, almost relax into it. But within a few seconds more, he was up again, looking at the clock. He couldn't tear himself away from it. Coming up on one minute now. His hands gripped the armrests.
Even in his urgency he was impressed by how the sound seemed to vanish from his ears--everything now was the beating of his heart, and his lungs trying vainly to expand, when he simply wouldn't let them. And her voice. "Just a little longer..." Her lips on his, almost sucking the trembling from them. He wanted to call her at home, but she would surely be puzzled by the silence...
Trying not to make too much noise (he prayed no one would walk past), he stamped his feet, trying to make the time pass faster, but the second hand seemed to move all the slower. Over and over again he closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them the time would be past.
Finally...eleven-oh-one, and 26 seconds.
The world was a flood of air.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia