It was not that she'd truly wanted to move, or that she'd
necessarily desired to stay in the little village where they'd met; it was
more a fear of stagnancy. Five years his
younger, she'd loved him since the onset of her twenties. She'd stood
ringside and watched blow by blow as he fought men who seemed to come
from Satan's forgotten lava pits.
Each opponent more terrifying than the last. And the fights were bloody and the rounds lasted forever, and her hands were flushed and sweaty the entire time she sat there terrified, but she never let it show. She knew how to put on the face, how to be his companion, there, in the most difficult of places. How to stand and wait for the final bell no matter what.
During one of his fights she'd thought of leaving, of turning and running out of the arena rather than sit and watch him be martyred in front of everyone. In that fight he was dissected, staggered and cut by a younger slim fighter with arms like black lashes. It took everything in her not to cry out; beg the referee to stop the contest. But she didn't. She'd seen him thrash other fighters to the point where their women ran out, crying with eyeliner streaking down their cheeks and she swore she'd never do that to him. She'd stayed. She watched him take his beating. And the crowd cheered. And he went down swinging. It was awful, and she had no idea what kept her from bursting into sobs.
She talked to him about it only once, after he'd retired from the ring. She asked him how he'd gone through with it when he knew the risk.
"You'll never see a knock out punch anyway," he said. "You'll never see it coming."
"Don't ever leave me," he begged everyday,after the gruesome fight. She sat beside him while he was trying to piece together the parts of his life that mattered.The punches, the blackouts, the trophies and her; she'd stayed by him through it all and he knew that no matter how fierce the fight, she would not abandon him.
"I won't," she promised.
But she did. It was a few months later. She didn't come home and he called but she didn't answer the phone.
Each opponent more terrifying than the last. And the fights were bloody and the rounds lasted forever, and her hands were flushed and sweaty the entire time she sat there terrified, but she never let it show. She knew how to put on the face, how to be his companion, there, in the most difficult of places. How to stand and wait for the final bell no matter what.
During one of his fights she'd thought of leaving, of turning and running out of the arena rather than sit and watch him be martyred in front of everyone. In that fight he was dissected, staggered and cut by a younger slim fighter with arms like black lashes. It took everything in her not to cry out; beg the referee to stop the contest. But she didn't. She'd seen him thrash other fighters to the point where their women ran out, crying with eyeliner streaking down their cheeks and she swore she'd never do that to him. She'd stayed. She watched him take his beating. And the crowd cheered. And he went down swinging. It was awful, and she had no idea what kept her from bursting into sobs.
She talked to him about it only once, after he'd retired from the ring. She asked him how he'd gone through with it when he knew the risk.
"You'll never see a knock out punch anyway," he said. "You'll never see it coming."
"Don't ever leave me," he begged everyday,after the gruesome fight. She sat beside him while he was trying to piece together the parts of his life that mattered.The punches, the blackouts, the trophies and her; she'd stayed by him through it all and he knew that no matter how fierce the fight, she would not abandon him.
"I won't," she promised.
But she did. It was a few months later. She didn't come home and he called but she didn't answer the phone.
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