The Last Dance

Clementines that taste, well, like clementines, and the grainy texture of butterscotch pudding that had long since expired, remind me of her. A vacancy has occurred since last I felt the gaze from that pair of olive green, and it cannot be understated. She was important. Not the sort of importance you find in limousines or resumés. Rather, she brought with her a taste of ecstasy, the kind that begins and ends in hopeless ambition.

I should have known her; this I can say with certainty. If it weren’t for eggshell white hallways and the occasional cold shock of chrome-plated brass, my hand might have met her. My mother wouldn’t have heard any of it. No, not the faint glimmer of passing moonrocks could stifle the sentence of the stars in her view. Perhaps rightly so.

I can recall the first time her name greeted my ears; the ring of the stands was uncompromising. There she stood, in all her glory, draped in black, the kind you meet on isolated trails on a clouded night, while two pearl white ornaments sat on her crown. The roar of centuries could be heard for miles and while they beckoned for a battle, I wished only to extend a branch.

That scent of fear was not foreign, and it had impressed me since I first sprinted across a cemetery at dusk. Now it was all too familiar and dread crept in. My breast seized, as I awaited the inevitable. No sooner, the gates opened.

I once read that there are two sorts of cages; the ones you can grasp and the ones you can feel tighten around your soul. I have known both. To break free from the former is at first, fresh as the earth after a night full of rain. It is only when the latter is recognized, we begin to understand that we have not escaped unscathed.

The silver-screen box was but our only means of communication and she, Genevese they called her, ripped through the moment. There was but a flash of scarlet red, and when she charged onward, the present did not meet her. The frustration was tangible, and I grasped the bed sheet in fury.

She must see him, that figment of a man in his blue velvet coat. Someone ought to help. Why is nobody helping her?

Seconds dragged on by, my teeth clenched. Tears kissed my cheeks. She lined up again and violently drew breath. Dust kicked up quickly and covered her hooves as she raced to meet her mark.

Just then, the door opened.

“How are we doing today?”

“Fine, fine. I wish they would bring in more pillows, I find it hard to eat anything at this angle.”

I swayed my head in several directions to indicate that she disturbed my view. Taking the hint, the Doctor stepped to the side.

“Oh, I apologize! Anyhow, do you know what day it is today Mr. Clarke?”

“Yes, today is Sunday and yesterday was Saturday. Tomorrow is Monday, and that’s the next time I will have any peace if this interrogation goes on any longer!”

The Doctor’s eyes met the ground. It was not her fault for my condition, so I shouldn’t have been so short. However, at 47 years old and with the gradual loss of all mobility in my limbs, I hadn’t been exactly amicable in quite some time.

“I’m sorry, I am simply anxious for the results of my MRI.”

“Yes, well, they will come soon! I promise we are doing everything we can to keep you comfortable during your stay. If you need anything else, please ring for the duty nurse.”

“Understood. Thanks.”

The door shut behind her. I glanced up at the screen, Genevese was back in her cage. The audience had already forgotten the bull.