Listen to the author reading this story:
At the Stress Exchange, I slither Fear of Intimacy into the kidney-shaped bowl, where it writhes and tangles, transparent as an eel.
The man with the scrappy goatee nods. “Righto, what ya taking?”
I scan the menu: Predatory uncle, Money woes, Arachnophobia, Resentful teens, Fear of abandonment.
I point to abandonment. Isn’t that my whole job, letting go of the trapeze bar, soaring through space toward what will be?
He presses some buttons and — presto! — the exchange is like jumping into the English Channel. Teeth-jarring cold, a tingling in my scalp, then a gradual return to my body.
On my way out, I see Fear of intimacy appear on the menu. I feel lighter already.
I wonder if Eduardo will notice. I hope it helps.
In the circus tent, chalk silks my hands. Eduardo stands by his ladder. The Ringmaster’s voice crescendos as he announces us. Spotlights flare off the sequins of my leotard, off Eduardo’s muscled arms as he reaches up to climb.
I scale up up up the metal ladder, muscles thrumming, up to the platform where the air is thick with animal dung, sweat, popcorn. Far below, horses prance in the arena, girls balancing on them no bigger than toothpicks as they exit the ring.
With a nod, Eduardo mounts the bar, swings toward me upside down, like a million times before. Bartleby’s paired us two years ago and Eduardo is everything I wanted in a partner, strong arms, sure grip, perfect timing. Well, timing on the trapeze bar anyway.
I leap onto the fly bar, take off toward Eduardo. Time expands on my approach, my body full stretch as I let go and sail toward him. He grabs my wrists and we swing, two bodies in tandem.
Is he holding me or am I holding him? We are light, magnificent in the hushed air, the weight of expectant eyes. At the end of the swing I release, flip and extend, returning to my trapeze bar. It’s waiting for me, right where it should be.
But at the apex, as I hang motionless, defying gravity, defying time, I think of Friday night, the box, the ring, the hurt in his eyes when I said I wasn’t ready. And it hits me - why am I so sure he’ll wait? What if my rejection has made him reconsider?
And now I’m swinging, swinging, blissfully toward Eduardo this time. My wrists ache from the absence of his fingers. The arc is too slow, my body leaden. Time does not glitter, it grinds. Finally, finally he’s in view.
I’ll say yes, of course I’ll say yes. If he’ll still have me. I try to tell him this with my eyes but at this angle it’s impossible.
The trajectory is all wrong but I can’t wait. Too early to release but I can’t wait. The crowd gasps but I can’t wait. I need need need to touch him. Eduardo grunts and catches my outstretched hands. There’s a ripping pain in my shoulders as we connect but his grip is sure. We lurch into a new rhythm.
We are swinging, swinging. Two more flips to go – a pike and the final twist – but I just can’t. I’ve decided this is where I belong and tighten my grip.
Cole Beauchamp is a queer writer based in London, where she lives with her girlfriend. She has never performed in the circus or cut off body parts with scissors. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for the Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, Monarch and Best Microfiction awards. She is a contributing editor at New Flash Fiction Review and can be found at odd hours on Bluesky @nomad-sw18.bsky.social