The Kink

They look at him and cheer. Sixty thousand people. Right there, in the palm of his hand. Man. Woman. Young. Old. Doesn’t matter. They radiate joy on sight.

His appeal universal.

A promoters dream.

Chest out, he waves back, leeching their applause. But there’s trouble. His set is yet to begin and already he’s panting. The thick, acrid stench of his breath fills his head. Today’s hangover is blooming.

The familiar intro chimes out across the stadium. Time to go to work. He waits for the cue, then begins his routine.

Autopilot engages.

It’s then, when he doesn’t need to focus on the moment, when he no longer needs to even think, that the thoughts return. With them come the memories.

Her face.

Beautiful.

Their life.

Balanced.

Until it wasn’t.

Their marriage.

Solid. Loyal.

Until he wasn’t.

Instinctively, he returns to that moment. The epicentre. A blunt trauma that destroyed the perfect, even surface of his world, and from which now permeated a myriad of irreparable cracks and shards.

That moment.

When they heard feet on the stairs, followed by a futile panic as the two of them scrambled, snatched at clothes, grasped for an escape.

That never came.  

A break of light. The open door.

His knees weaken at the memory.

That poor woman. She had no idea.

He sees her vague silhouette frozen in the doorway. Remembers fumbling at the straps. Stammering apologies.

A unique moment. Funny to some.

What came after mirrored what came before.

So predictable. Unoriginal.

Like him.

Eighteen months ago, he was a no-one. Just another talent show wannabe, an elephant ego balanced a pinhead of ability.

All that hope. All that blind ambition. All that wanting.

To be noticed.

It was only later, when people started to react, that the expectation kicked in. The delusion of entitlement.

Then he wanted them all.

In turn, he lost the one.

He recoils slightly. The knot in the pit of his stomach begins to tighten. It makes him retch as he mouths along to the music.

Put that out of your mind. Remain professional. Remember your training. The body reflects the mind.

Master your thoughts.

Think happy.

Be happy. 

But it was no use. The pain was sharper than a belly full of broken bottle.

Sharp as the regret.

As broken vows.

Tears blend with the lines of sweat that flow freely down his face. Impossible to wipe them off. Would only draw attention. Breathless, open mouthed, the occasional drop lands on his dry tongue. When it does, the alcoholic brine twists his empty stomach even tighter.

Make it stop. Make it stop.

He hears himself whimpering, yet he stumbles on.

They cheer louder. Oblivious. He sees the kid’s faces, elated. Their parents exaggerated encouragement, proud of the memories they’re creating.

He thinks of the children that they might have had. Had he not been so self-absorbed.

Such a selfish prick. Impossible to imagine him caring for anyone else.

Her words before.

His words now.

He thinks of the empty life ahead.

Alone.

The whimper becomes a cry now. His mouth no longer mirroring the music. He lowers his head, feels his shoulders drop. The pretence of performance all but gone.

But still the music plays. Still, they cheer.

Remember the training.

A bubble of alcoholic acid bursts somewhere inside, sending up a mouthful of vomit. He purses his lips in a futile attempt to contain the volume, but the force is irresistible. It bursts out of him.

Yet still they cheer.

A reflexive retch at the stench brings forth more and, unable to escape, a chain reaction occurs. He breathes in, he vomits out, until litres of half-digested beer, vodka, and coffee splash around his face.

He stumbles for the exit. Past expectant photo opportunities. The acrid liquid pouring through the gap at his neck.

‘They’re loving you tonight, Brian.’ A steward calls after him, as he falls into the changing room.

Brian fumbles at the straps.

Tries desperately to remove the massive lions head he is wearing.

The one he wore that day.

When the door opened behind him.

‘You alright, Brian?’

Brian mumbles.   

‘Get any more phone numbers today?’ the steward asks.

‘No,’ says Brian, lifting the head and releasing the reservoir within. ‘It would appear that there’s only one woman with a kink for mascot sex.’

The steward looks him up and down.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to clean yourself up,’ he says.

‘Oh, and I’ll see you at half time, yeah?’