Page 4 of He Likes it Spicy

“Well, yeah. You’re retired. All you have is time.”

“And I’d like to spend it with you.”

If I’m being too forward, she doesn’t show it.

Sam drags her teeth over her lip, heel bouncing, cheeks still so flush that I want to pick them like summer strawberries.

“Ever been to the circus?” she finally asks.

“When I was a child. I don’t remember much.”

“I can get you a front-row seat for the second show tonight. You’ve shown me your chili world—” She looks like she wants to gag on the word—“I’d like to show you mine.”

“It won’t be any trouble?”

Sam smiles. “My posters are everywhere, remember? Celebrity does have its benefits. I’d love for you to be there.”

“Then I will.”

She seems to shudder under some weight in my words. I feel it, too.

“Great! I… uh… really need to get back. Rehearsal and all. Give the ticket booth your name, and hang around after the show. I’ll tell the stagehands you’re VIP.”

“Wow, I feel special.”

“You are.”

Now, I can feel myself blushing.

Sam inhales deeply, inflating a wild, embarrassed smile that lights up my soul.

“You’re the crown chili champion! Of last year!” she says. “Of course, you’re special.”

We laugh so easily together, as if we’ve been joking our entire lives.

Sam holds out her delicate hand again. Maybe she’s looking for excuses to touch me, too.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Thor.”

“The pleasure has been mine.”

Feeling bolder than the spiciest chili, I take her hand like I’m handling a precious stone, bring it to my lips, and plant a soft kiss on her softer skin, never breaking her emerald gaze. “I can’t wait to see you perform.”

“Same,” she huffs. “I mean, I can’t wait to see you… for you to see me perform . All right, I have to go—the chili fumes are getting to my head.”

I watch her go, losing myself in her long legs as she scurries off and waves at a few fans. Someone says something to me, but I don’t hear them.

I don’t see the crowd.

I don’t smell the chili.

The only sensation worth feeling is her touch, and I’m counting the heartbeats until I feel it again.

Outside, it's still sweltering even though the sun has long set. But the temperature drops the moment I step into the big purple tent as if the threshold transports the show’s guests to another realm.

Strobing soft lights and exciting music would force my heart to beat harder if it wasn’t already thundering.

The thought of seeing Sam in her element has kept it pounding all day.

I flood in with families, groups of loud teens, and old folks looking for a youthful thrill. Conversations trickle into my ears from all directions, murmuring of Valkyrie . It’s as if my thoughts have occupied the minds of everyone present.

Wooden bleachers form a massive square, all facing the packed-down dirt where the performances will take place, separated only by a waist-high wall of hay bales.

A few attendees shout my name as I shuffle toward the hay.

I give them a wave, recognizing a few. As I take my seat in the front row, I’m joined by a drunk man in a cowboy hat.

He nearly spills his beer sliding in next to me.

“Shoulda gave us separate seats for how much these damn tickets cost. Bleachers . That’s some bullshit,” he says haughtily. “It’ll be worth it, though. That girl performing wants me bad .”

I flip through my program booklet. “Who? The giantess or one of the clowns?”

“What? Hell no. Valkyrie .” He takes a chug and clears his throat as if it pains him to drink the cheap lager. “We... uh… got a little flirty earlier. I got her number.”

“Is that so?”

His red face gives him away. “You calling me a liar?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Maybe she’ll wave at you during the performance.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Definitely. ”

He settles in, drinking his beer like he’s dying of thirst. I’m grateful when the music stops, the lights dim, and a spotlight shines on a man who seems to have materialized at the center of the tent. He’s wearing a purple suit, a plastic smile, and all the confidence a man like him can steal.

“ Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls.” His voice booms, seemingly without a microphone. “Who’s ready for a show unlike any other? A performance that defies reason? A dazzling night of skill, talent, and courageousness that you won’t soon forget!?”

He gets his hooks in the crowd quickly. Even the guy next to me cheers when appropriate.

I clap politely.

Charles, the man in the purple suit who introduces himself as the proprietor of tonight’s cast of talented individuals, is a fast-talker if I’ve ever heard one. That’s the type of man who can talk money out of your wallet while putting a smile on your face.

Once he’s got the crowd worked up, the first act begins with zero introduction.

Two slender young men run out from the bleachers, shirtless and sweating as they wield torches bursting with fire.

It’s an explosive start. The two men—who look to be twins—blow fire at the four sections of bleachers, pulling gasps from the crowd followed by uproarious applause.

But they don’t stick to it for long. Before the fireballs can grow stale, they light dozens of torches to illuminate the rest of their act, which involves medieval-style body piercings that nearly make the man next to me nauseous before his inevitable hangover.

Impressive, but I’d skip it if it meant I could see Sam’s act a moment sooner.

The show rolls on.

Three clowns enact their rendition of Romeo and Juliet , in which the third clown portrays the poison who just wishes the two lovers would grow up and communicate like adults; A spacey, light-footed magician does card tricks, stuns crowd members by reading facts about them simply from their gazes (and I’m sure some scouting before the show), and manages to levitate a few feet off the ground; There’s a band nailing requests from the audience—the cowboy next to me is furious when they ignore his request for an uncouth country song; A woman nearly my size who picks out audience members and reps them in impressively clean military presses; And a comedian who actually works in a joke about our chili cook-off and the circus losing their main event from choking fatally on a pinto bean.

It’s an entertaining show. Silly, perhaps, but fun. I can see why people would choose it for a night out with their family.

But I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.

The Valkyrie.

Finally, a stampede of drums as deep as my voice starts to roll like encroaching thunder. Charles paces the perimeter of the arena, dipping in and out of the bleachers as black curtains are lowered, blocking our view. I sense movement inside as he distracts the crowd.

“The Valkyrie, legendary, beautiful warriors of Norse tales, those who guide the souls of the dead to Valhalla. Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, we host one of the royal daughters of Odin… a creature so delicate yet powerful that I ask you to hold your applause so as to not frighten her from our mortal realm… For she may unleash her wrath upon us if she’s startled, and not even Hilda the Giantess could vanquish this mystical creature… ”

Not bad. Not exactly correct (daughters of Odin is a stretch, among other things), but better than I’d expect from a carnival conman. Suddenly, his voice drops so low that I struggle to hear him.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, bear witness… and be amazed.”

The curtains fall.

Voids of black are conquered by glorious golden light. The rays seem to reflect and duel one another, criss-crossing metal beams and towers that were hastily assembled during Charles’s distraction.

Little gasps burst in the crowd like popcorn, rolling over one another until everyone is looking at the same thing: the Valkyrie, dressed in a black unitard with one missing sleeve, black hair done into a long ponytail so taut that it could be used as a weapon, standing atop the highest metal tower and posing like a bird about to take flight.

The raven staring down at us all.

She leaps, and my heart stops.

I nearly jump from my seat in an attempt to catch her; I never would have made it, of course, and the crowd sighs in relief with me as she grips a swing and flies from one end of the tent to the other.

Her leg hooks over the bar, allowing her to contort and wave her hand over the crowd as she flies by like a blackbird.

Without a net, the move is death-defying.

The cowboy next to me laughs, jeers, and yells some obscenity far too loudly for my liking. Without thinking, I grab him by the back of the neck and growl, “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”

He nods frantically. “Sure, man. Right on. All you had to say…”

I release him, leaning my elbows on my knees as I watch Sam intently.

The crowd respects the request for no applause or flash photography.

How could they focus on anything but her ?

Every jump, grab, and flip feels more dangerous, more daring than the last. She demands our attention, our respect, our reverence…

Finally, the aerial portion of her act comes to an end. For all I know, she’s been up there for hours hypnotizing me with the point of her toes.

I remember to breathe.

A soft violin cuts through the hush of the crowd. Only now do I realize that the first part of her performance lacked music. They let her soar above us like some creature in the night, accompanied only by our stunned breaths.

She rappels on a nearly translucent silky cloth hanging down from the darkness.

Every time I think she’ll get her feet on the ground, she halts her momentum, ties herself into some impossible knot in the cloth, and lets go, held in place by her own strength.

She spins as slowly as the hour hand all afternoon, time dragging in anticipation for this night.

Her toes hit the ground, which has been covered in some black sheet, and the music swells.

Spotlights target her, making the black unitard glisten like obsidian.

The new crashing sounds take her body away, pumping her legs in graceful strides from one end of the arena to the other.

She leaps onto a sheet-covered hay bale to my section’s left, dancing as if the crowd simply does not exist. It’s like we’re witnessing the movement of a fabled creature that occupies another realm, as if we’ve been gifted a looking glass for one night.

Along the narrow path of hay bales she moves, tip-toeing, leaping, walking effortlessly on her hands while her perfect legs point toward the tent’s ceiling, working clockwise with no hurry.

For each section, she halts her progress and performs a glimpse of her splendor that seems to last a lifetime.

The contortions she puts herself in fill my mind with thoughts not suitable for a family show…

It feels as if I’ve been waiting my entire life when she finally arrives at the last section, my section. From my seat, she’s only a few steps away, towering over me, still moving like nothing exists except the music and her flowing limbs.

I feel the cowboy tense next to me. Does this idiot actually think she’s going to acknowledge him? I was invited by her, spent the afternoon laughing and whispering with her, and even I’m not so arrogant as to think that she’d take focus away from her performance to throw me a wink or a wave.

The Valkyrie steps off the hay and melts toward me with movements so divine that I nearly pinch myself. I must be dreaming…

The crowd murmurs. She didn’t get so close to the other sections. What’s she doing?

She points her legs like deadly blades with each step.

Closer and closer until I can smell lilacs.

I’m so tempted to reach out and touch her that I white-knuckle the bleacher to stop myself.

It’s so clear that I’ve been singled out by the Valkyrie that even the drunken fool next to me scoots to the side.

She twirls with momentum that could carry her into the sky, spinning on her toes, ponytail whipping faster and faster until she starts to slow, agonizingly slow until she freezes in a pose with one leg contorted above her head.

Here in this big tent, in the middle of hundreds of people, her green eyes find me and she smiles. The Valkyrie acknowledges my existence.

My section of the crowd practically faints.

A few women swoon.

Through her character, I see Sam hiding in there. That tough, sarcastic, slightly annoyed girl who struggled through ten chilis and held my arm like it was the only thing in the world keeping her steady. She’s there, grinning at me in our shared secret.

I smile back.

From her contortion, her glistening sleeveless arm snakes out as if it has a mind of its own. Sam’s fingers dance, moving like water until her other hand flashes before my eyes, revealing a blood-red rose clutched between her fingers.

The Valkyrie nods—much to the joy of the crowd—and I pluck the rose from her.

The tent can no longer contain its applause.

Sam flips backward, slinking over the hay bale and making her way to center stage. She doesn’t quite match the music, and that lets me know that singling me out wasn’t planned.

The man next to me leaves, but I barely notice him go.

I smell the rose, taking in her lingering scent on the plastic petals.

For the rest of her performance, I can’t keep this stupid grin off my face.