He’s on the top rope again, then flying through the air, a comet made of muscle and long, flapping hair. He lands on the mat, whatever material they make wrestling rings out of makes a dramatic noise. He rolls and flips, then is on his feet in a flash.
“I’m hungry,” I call out to him.
“Just a minute,” he calls back. “Watch this.”
I watch and I must admit his moves are impressive. He spins around and around, a sweaty whirling dervish.
We met at work, two baristas flirting over the whipped cream. He made me laugh like no one else ever had. I was in love instantly, possibly for the first time.
These long evenings are my duty to him. An ever-faithful girlfriend kind of task, watching him practice. Tryouts are in two weeks but we won’t make it that far. I don’t know it yet, but he’s cheating on me with a Republican. She’ll come into the coffee shop with his custom-embroidered button up on and I’ll cry so hard in the back room that they send me home early.
He climbs back onto the top rope and rips his shirt open. The shirt read “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” and I always loved it. I make a mental note to buy him another before I cup my hands around my mouth and softly go “ahhhhh” like a crowd going wild. He peacocks some more, then hops down, slides out from under the bottom rope of the wrestling ring and joins me on the dying grass. It hasn’t rained and the blades crunch softly underfoot.
His half black, half blonde hair blows in the breeze. I secretly hate it but it’s part of his wrestling persona. I forget how exactly. He puts one arm around my neck and pulls me close. His body odor wafts up and I hold my breath as we kiss.
“I’m hungry,” I repeat. “Take a shower so we can go get dinner.”
“How does Burger King sound?”
“Perfect,” even though we’ve been to BK every week since we started dating a month ago.
We go inside and I busy myself in his room while he showers, ignoring the pile of wrestling action figures on the floor. His computer dings with messages from his Republican girlfriend but I’m too naive to look at them, too trusting of this man I have given my heart to.
He emerges from the shower, glistening and beautiful. As he kisses me and lets his towel fall down, I forget to be hungry. We make love on his frameless mattress as the sun dips down below the horizon, painting our faces with darkness.
photo by Joe Hernandez
Ly Faulk 
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