perfect 10

a perfect 10


She was a great gymnast. Her flips and turns and dismounts were mesmerizing. She was Olympic-grade; she was...a sight to behold. She wore a sparkly costume like they do in the circus. Blue sequins that spiraled down her arms like Mardi Gras snakes. Her black hair was always in a bun, or in a braid, or flowing behind her. Her age was ten, or sixteen, or twenty-nine. In your mind she was undefeatable. The car would have to travel at a certain speed: not too fast, and not stuck in the kind of traffic that requires a rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the breaks. At the right speed—a steady forty miles an hour—she could fly. You never saw how she began. There wasn't enough time to witness the climb from pavement to bar. You caught her in motion. She whipped around the street lamp arms with grace and power. And as the car coasted from light to light, she performed the feats of an accomplished acrobat. She was not an ordinary gymnast, for she traveled forward as one must on the monkey bars. She was not an ordinary gymnast, for her "bars" were thirty feet from the ground. From one street lamp to the next, she glided through the air. Half-turns, double turns, back flips, fully extended or with her knees hugged tight to her chest, she catapulted. She never looked back. She never fell. She never made a mistake. She had an audience of one, but it could easily have been thousands cheering her on from countless passenger windows. The routine was flawless.


But then, without warning:



The light turned red.



Or the car turned left.



Or the rain began.



Or the cell phone rang.



Or the siren blared.



Or the rabbit darted.



Or the coffee spilled.



Or the driver spoke to you.



And so she stopped.