“I know it sounds ridiculous, maybe even wild, but swinging up on those bars gave me a sort of serenity.”
The reporter glanced down to her wristwatch; time was pressing.
“Why’d you quit, than?” she asked, scribbling down any commentaries she felt necessary.
“Why does anyone quit the thing they love most? Nostalgia? Fear? Appreciation? You could compare it to love,” the subject answered.
“But that’s impossible. You were an award-winning gymnast. You had everything, the fame…Olympics. I just find it difficult to relate any competition as love.”
“You ever been in love?” The reported stared back at her, rigid. The subject smirked. “Well, just imagine your lover as a bar. Either you go the distance and you tear your way up to a handstand, still knowing there is a chance of falling and therefore getting hurt, or do you, like many, cower and stop halfway?”
“Well, if I knew what I was doing, of course I would go the whole way.”
“You’re lying.”
The reporter arched her eyebrows in frustration. “Why would I lie?”
“You are a reporter, aren’t you?”
Laughing uneasily to bide time for her anger to reside she asked, “So, you didn’t know what you were doing?”
The subject sat up from her relaxed position. “I didn’t say that. But like a lover, I wasn’t about to get too attached.”
“Than you’re the coward,” the reported replied, chewing on the end of her pen.
“Maybe I am, but I figure I saved some heartache that day by doing it.”
“Did you now?” The reported asked, her fingers starting to tingle at the sound of personal information. She raised one eyebrow in concentration.
“I’m sure you would love to know all about my ghastly affair with the coach,” the gymnast waved off, pretending to hold out a silver platter. “Sound simply delicious, doesn’t it? Lord knows, you filthy pests live off of dirt.”
“Yep, that’s us; the two-timing, low lifers that find pleasure in other’s misfortune.”
The subject chuckled in amusement. “My misfortunes made me famous.”
“That’s what we all heard. So, about this affair, does this go back to the ‘bar situation?’”
“It could go along with that, I suppose. Although, I find it more of a ‘beam situation.’”
“Care to explain?”
“Being on a beam is like standing upon a rail ten thousand feet up in the air, the only thing is…you’re only 5 feet up and on a much wider surface. But as I was saying, imagine looking down and feeling as if there isn’t enough space for your feet to plant themselves. How do you think you’d feel?”
“Well, I’d be just as scared as the next person.”
“Exactly, a beam is much different than a bar. With a bar, you can, at least, feel some reassurance that it’s stable. A beam, although held up by two stable pillars, is used with the feet. And as humans, we tend to have more control with our hands than we do with our feet.”
“That’s a very wise analogy you came up with,” the reported commented, jotting down the word ‘Beam’ on her already busy notebook. “You’re suggesting that this ‘affair’ was very risky?
“And some.”
“And some…” the reported trailed off, glancing one more time down at her watch. They had 10 minutes to spare.
“In a hurry?” the subject asked, cracking her knuckles rudely. She seemed to have a satisfactory grin on her face. It was dark so the reported wasn’t too sure.
“One more thing…”
“Go ahead, ask me.”
“Would you have continued onto the Olympics if your affair with your coach had never been released?”
“Would I have continued onto the next beam if placed in front of me? I don’t think so. Plus, I find satisfaction in knowing that some buzz kill took my place and is on that beam instead of me. At least my feet are planted safely on the ground.”
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