Worry about tomorrow, yesterday.
Lydia turned the lid, the steam from the pot enveloping her senses.
The roasted chicken actually smelled good, despite the lack of spices other than pre-ground pepper and barely any salt. No butter on the small potatoes, nor on the rice. She placed the plate on the table in front of her usual seat at the large dining room table. Sliding the chair up to the edge of the table, she took for granted the loud echo the room made. The house wasn’t a mansion exactly, it was fairly large. Larger than the one room, mouse infested rental she grew up in with her father, cousin and her rapidly aging aunt.
While the chicken dissolved in her mouth, being beaten by her teeth, Lydia’s eyes scanned around the big room at the trophies, newspaper clippings and old trunks and outfits after starting the first boxing club for women at her high school. Moving on after a boxing scout found her, she signed a contract for what was known as….she physically shuddered at her recollection of the word….foxy boxing. Basically, men with too much time and money on their hands and a lack of attention at home watching two well-developed women beating on each other.
She admitted in interviews later that it gave her plenty of experience getting to know the business side of the sport that she grew to love so much, though her family hated it. The thought made her slow down on the semi-bland rice and potatoes on her fork. She took a sigh and went on devouring the necessary protein and carb-load for training before the match tomorrow. Her head moved to the framed contract with a legit MMA outfit. Meeting Phillip was the best thing ever after discovering the feel of the heavy gloves around her fists and feeling the heavy bag give way under those protected knuckles. The organization gave her training, dietary advice, promotion that didn’t demean her or her other female fighters. She could be proud of what she was doing. Doing interviews with the cable news networks, even while her father and cousin left texts asking what she was doing, hoping she would come back to the safety of the dining room table to play games and solve puzzles.
Smaller world, smaller table, smaller minds, she guessed. Guesses counted, she thought.
Phillip was the first man that ever treated her like an actual woman. Not just a stout, fairly muscled boxer that could kick his butt if they ever argued like most men saw her. He was intelligent, spoke his mind and came to her matches, cheering maybe the loudest for her outside the octagon.
The house that she sat eating the bland, pre-fight, pre-training food that she still liked cooking for herself was bought with her first big payday. Neither she nor Phillip had any interest in having children, so the house had just two bedrooms, one for any guests that never came by. A big kitchen for the other new growing passion in her life, cooking was allowed to develop, and a living room with an actual working fireplace. Not the ancient, wall inserted furnace that she grew up with. She had offered to put a large down payment on a new house for her remaining family, but no text reply arrived.
With few exceptions, Lydia stuck to the recommended diet of poultry for protein, rice and occasional potatoes for carbs and fiber to keep her in shape. Bland. Few, if any spices. Phillip shook his head at that and would sometimes tease her with homemade salsa, spicy guacamole and cheese enchiladas. He knew he was safe from those now-legendary punches, but little did he know that, if he kept that up, he might be the exception.
Phillip and Lydia became Phillip AND Lydia. Not just each of them on their own. They were perfectly happy making plans, moving into the large-ish house. But as has been said, life happens when you make happy plans.
After a training session one evening, Lydia came back home complaining of a headache. She rarely, if ever, had headaches, much less felt ill, but she took the pills, went to bed and woke up with a worse headache ten hours later. The MMA outfit provided medical care, but she had a hunch that they may be on the side of the promoters and keep any diagnoses on their side. People getting beaten up made a lot of money.
She went to Phillip’s family doctor.
Bad news rarely fits in with happy plans. The tumor had been developing in different areas around one side of her face and she was warned that, if she continued her passion in the octagon, she will not live to enjoy her kitchen, her large dining room, her Phillip.
She postponed an upcoming match, claiming to need some time with her now fiancee, Phillip. Truthfully, they planned on marriage weeks before that, but she let him talk her into an extended rest, telling her to explore her cooking passion and just hang out, play games and solve puzzles at the….at this….dining room table. It lasted a week before she put on the gloves and Phillip found her at the bag, punching it like it was the doctor who broke the news to them.
After a tearful talk with the swinging heavy bag behind them, slowly keeping pace with the heaviness of the subject, the heavy air around them, Phillip gave the ultimatum that she feared. Quit fighting, or quit him. He was no coward, she knew, but he refused to watch her go into the octagon for what he knew would likely be the last time. He could go to the outfit’s doctor and get the order to stop, but he knew that would be the end of their relationship, seeing it as betrayal on his part.
She dug her fork into the nearly cleared plate, sighing. No spice, no salt, not even any pepper. Just the way it’s always been, the way it should be.
Those wall hangings were just adornments, decoration, she knew, but never admitted to Phillip, or her father when she called him and got an answer. They shared, they vented, they even cried. He asked about meeting for lunch or dinner soon. Soon, yes. Soon, she answered. Simple answer, simple fuel.
The trophies, remembrances, reviews staring down at her, awaiting her next move.
Her next move was to get up and wash her plate and silverware, placing everything in the drying rack.
She had a good idea of their conversation. It would be similar to hers and Phillips last, harsh words and questions. Why are you doing this to yourself. Not just to me, but to yourself. This is….suicide. How long have you thought like this.
Self-harm had never occurred to her. She reveled in the time in the octagon and in the gym training. It made her feel alive. Made her feel. The sweat, the competition, the intense preparation and the after-glow and pain. It was raw, beautiful. The adoration was welcome, of course, but secondary to the feel of the canvas under her booted feet giving way a little to the power in her toned body.
Besides, doctors have been wrong before. Yes, there have been instances like that.
The drive to the building had been a blank. As bland as her meal. That was fine. Just fine.
The crowd cheered.
The dance began, the two respectful opponents moving to their internal rhythms, the sound of jeers and shouts of joy far away from the blood pumping through their heads, hearts and arms.
Who cares if this was the end.
A “fortune-teller” that she and Phillip visited at a local fair told them that life is here and now, not in some paper or in a bank or with a job that will be gone in a few decade’s time. Yes, the old scam artist was right. She would rather be here, bouncing on her heels than being safe locked in a corporate office typing and reciting lies to someone uncaring on the other end of the phone.
She felt the right hook delivered precisely. Beautiful job.
(Epilogue)
“Woohoo! Man, that Lydia Marshall can move!” The waitress brought two more mugs of watered down beer to the two men at the corner of the bar.
The man opposite him nodded, only glancing at the screen. “Yeah, she’s incredible. Devoted in every way.” he nodded and went back to nursing his own warmed beer.
“Just incredible? Bro, lookit that left upper cut! I bet Georgia never saw that coming!!” The man’s cheering turned silent after seeing his “champion” get clocked with a fast right hook. “Aw no! C’mon, Lydia! Get back up! Get up!!” His own and the other cheers in the semi-dark sports bar started to turn silent after the count was done and the referee crouched down next to her, tapping at her shoulder and taking a pulse. Everything was even quieter after Phillip paid his and his temporary friends’ tab and left with a bar napkin to his face.
