Clowns

The clown twirled. The cyst-like tip of his long shoe dug into the gold star on the circus floor, his red and white costume ballooned. Like a top, it spun.
“Boys and girls, the one, the only, Dozo the clown….”
His knobby chalk-white index cut the light. The sound, accompanied by a drum-roll, shook the air.
The spot light followed his finger as it stopped at a place in the bleachers.
“…and he wants you!”
I shuddered, yelled.
“No!”
A hand shook my shoulder.
“Pete?”
I squinted in the light that filled the room overlooking the sea.
“Bad dream again? The studio called. You have to shoot the clown scene again.”
My eyes found my wife. She smelled of fresh coffee.
“What time is it?”
“Nine. Breakfast’s ready.”
I rolled my eyes under closed lids, playing with the sperm-like particles that swam in the pink light.
“Don't go. Stay. Please.”
“Can't. I have a meeting.”
I reached for her hips.
“Please…”
She slipped away laughing.
“Actors!”
She ran out of the apartment. Sandals clicking like cicadas down the stairs and into the car park below.
I heard her car start up and drive off.
Beyond the glass doors, from the adjoining balcony, a bronze leg appeared, smooth. It slipped over the railing.
A blond head above an over-sized t-shirt followed. Under, the bikini bottom was minuscule.
“Open!” Mouthed the lips outside the glass.
I stared.
This was nuts. It couldn't go on.
She pouted. The red and white awning ballooned in the wind behind her.
“Open, Peter...please.”
I flipped my legs off the side of the bed.
My reflection, in the glass, was pathetic.
When I opened, she smiled, falling into my arms.
“Will you wear the clown suit for me?” She whispered.

Matilde Colarossi