One Final Dance

Microfiction (300 words or less)

Good crowd tonight. Decent purse.
Who are you kidding? It’s not about the money, it never was. Not even when you were first name on the card at Caesar’s Palace.
Here he comes, dancing up the runway, vaulting into the ring. Look at him, strutting around like he owns the place. But he does, it’s you that’s buying time in his spotlight. They don’t come to see you any more, you’re just another rung on the ladder that he’s climbing. A low rung.
The lights flash, but they don’t seem so bright these days. That’ll be the eyes going. Knock gloves as the referee talks. I never hear what he says, never have. Stretch my back, and pain twenty years old stretches with me. The old heat wakes up in my shoulders.
I take a really good look at him for the first time. He looks fit. His body’s bulky, but not so bulky that it’ll slow him down. He’ll move fast, and hit hard. The worst kind. Being hit has never been a problem, but the speed is. They just seem to be getting faster and faster. No, no, no, you stupid old man, it’s you getting slower. You’re getting slower, and someday soon they’ll learn the tricks, and then your day’ll really be gone. Could be gone already. We’ll see how this one turns out. Whether you’ve judged it right or not.
Poor, sweet Ellen. She’ll be watching her film about now, trying not to think about me. Hoping that when I come back I don’t look too different. Hoping that I come back. Well, this is my last time. One final dance.
Yeah. That’s what you said last time.
Stupid old man.