“I don’t understand why you’re so determined to make me a widow,” said Juliette, pacing back and forth in the cramped dressing room.
“Stop with the theatrics,” Pete replied. “Or maybe we should paint your face and shove you into the spotlight.”
A slight chuckle escaped his lips, quickly shifting into a raspy, hacking cough. He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray surrounded by empty beer bottles. Pete cleared his throat, waved away the smoke, and turned his attention back to the vanity mirror. He dabbed white makeup around his eyes with two fingers, each movement deliberate and unhurried, as though the entire world was watching.
Behind him, Juliette drifted through the smoky haze, throwing up her hands in frustration, before collapsing into a folding chair in the corner. The seat groaned under her weight as she crossed her arms, letting out a sharp huff through her nose, like a steam whistle venting pressure. The pounding rhythm of rock music and shuffling feet thudded through the ceiling, providing a muffled backdrop to the tense silence between them.
“For God’s sake Pete it hasn’t even been three weeks since your heart attack,” Juliette blurted out. “That's not normal for a 39-year-old man, not to mention your head injuries. How many more concussions until your brain is nothing more than mush?”
Pete’s gaze was locked on the mirror as he massaged white makeup in his jawline with steady circular motions. “Were you not with me when the doctor said I could go out there?” he retorted.
“Have you gone deaf too?” Juliette shot back, her voice quivering with something between anger and fear. “He said you could go out there, but there’s no chance of outrunning death. You’ve become nothing more than a cork in the ocean, just tossed around and flung into the air. I can’t keep watching you fall apart and pretend nothing is wrong.”
Pete slammed his fist down on the counter, the impact rattled the mirror and toppled a beer bottle to the floor. It shattered instantly, sending jagged brown shards flying across the concrete and tangling themselves in the rainbow laces of his checkered boots. “This is the only thing I’m good at,” he yelled. “It puts enough food on the table. What do you want?”
Juliette opened her mouth but words jammed in her throat. She swallowed hard as tears welled in her eyes. “I want you Pete,” she said, shuddering. “I want us to make it to our second wedding anniversary. I want—to start a family.”
“You knew what you were getting into when you married a rodeo clown,” Pete said, lighting another cigarette.
He stood and turned to face Juliette, the vanity mirror lights reflected off his baggy shirt, a chaotic patchwork of neon puzzle pieces. His nose gleamed bright red like a cherry tomato, while the white around his eyes and mouth was sharply outlined in black. The cartoonish smile painted on his face clashed with the downturned edges of his lips, a jarring mismatch that made his expression unsettling.
“I didn’t marry the clown,” Juliette replied, an urgency in her voice as she stepped towards Pete. Her finger traced the outline of a puzzle piece on his shirt. “I married a strong, handsome, capable man who doesn’t have to risk his life to prove anything.” She paused, her eyes searching through the makeup. “Oh Pete, there’s so much more waiting for us if we just move to the city.”
“Like what? Stocking shelves at your daddy’s store?” Pete shot back, venom lacing his words as he stepped away. “Where’s the praise and admiration in that?”
He took a long drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing as his eyes narrowed, searching some deep recess of his mind. “I’ve spent so much time creating and crafting this persona, that’s all I am now—just some court jester called on to dance for the people. But what terrifies me even more,” he added, the frustration growing, “is fading away into some dull, routine, blue-collar life.”
Pete bit his lip, fighting the trembling in his body. “You don’t think I haven't dreamed of something more? But it’s a hard pill to swallow when you wake up one day, damn near forty, and realize your only skills don’t mean shit. Being gouged by a bull and prancing on top of a barrel won’t sell Ferraris or wire a house. At least in that arena, I can make people happy for a few hours.”
“You can’t make people happy if you’re dead,” Juliette pleaded. “You’re literally on death's doorstep here, what are you trying to prove?”
“That I matter!” Pete snapped, his voice crackling as if trying to hold back a torrent of tears. “I want everyone who treated me like trash to know they were wrong. I want them to know I rose above those classroom politics and the hallway drama to create something special. Every time I enter the arena, I pray one of those bastards is in the crowd drowning in envy.”
The dressing room door cracked open, and a young man with a radio headset leaned in. “Two minutes to showtime, Pancake.” He announced, before disappearing as quickly as he arrived.
Pete sighed and his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight suddenly thrust onto his back. His eyes flicked toward the door, but before he could take a step, Juliette closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist.
“You matter to me,” she whispered into his ear. “What else do you need?” Before he could respond, she pulled away and walked to the dressing room door, pausing to glance back one last time before disappearing.
Her words echoed louder than Pete’s footsteps as he limped down the empty hallway toward the arena entrance. Each step sent a familiar jolt of pain shooting from his right knee up to his groin, a reminder of all he’d endured. But for the first time, the pain felt bigger than his battered body. He suddenly understood—every physical injury he had endured left unseen emotional scars on Juliette, the woman he loved. As much as he wanted to carry it alone, it wasn’t just his pain to bear. The realization hit harder than any rodeo stock he’d ever been thrown against.
Pete reluctantly pushed open the arena door and was met with a warm summer breeze that carried the scent of corndogs and popcorn. Above him, the sky lingered in a fleeting haze, suspended between indigo and black as he moved into the glare of the stadium lights. His checkered boots kicked up dirt and fresh manure as he jogged to the center of the arena. The crowd erupted in an electric cheer, their voices blending with the announcer's booming introduction, "Ladies and gentlemen, the man who’s gets flattened and flipped, but won’t stay down, the one and only—Pancake Pete!"
Pete focused on the bull behind the black iron gate, its massive two-thousand-pound frame tense with restrained power. Adrenaline surged through Pete’s veins, sending his heart into a familiar wild, pounding rhythm. He watched as the rider adjusted his leather chaps and slid onto the bull's muscular back. The gatekeeper raised a hand, signaling everyone to be ready for the chaos.
Pete scanned the crowd, looking only for the comfort of Juliette's face. He began to squint, straining to bring the faces into focus, but his vision dissolved into a blurry mess of colors. A sharp, searing pain shot through his head like a bolt of lightning had struck his brain. Desperately, he tried to raise his arm to call for help, but his body betrayed him. It felt as though gravity had latched onto not only his arm but his lower lip as well, dragging it downward, leaving him slack-jawed and helpless. Jumbled nonsense spilled from his mouth, incoherent words tangling together as the world around him spun further out of control. A sinking feeling of regret washed over as the mental image of him and Juliette holding a child flashed in his mind, only to fade away with the rest of his thoughts.
The gatekeeper yanked the chain, swinging open the gate. The bull exploded forward in a storm of thrashing hooves and flying dirt. It bucked wildly until its focus locked on the antagonizing sight of neon puzzle pieces and charged straight toward Pete with unrelenting force.
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