Mud Wrestle

“My first opponent was tall and slender. She and I were cordial at first, sidling up next to each other as the small, clothed crowd cheered us on. I’m not sure who lunged first but next thing I knew, we were covered in mud as we tried to pin the other down for three seconds. The fight was raw and animalistic, like we were breaking the law. Despite my opponent’s height, I contorted my body and slid out from her grasp. I advanced to the next round — albeit achy and out of breath — to a more seasoned athlete who came to win. Our thighs slapped against the tarp as we threw each other across the floor. Our eyes and ears were painted in mud like two casts of the human form. At one point she pinned me down so hard that I could feel the air vacate my lungs. I waved an arm at Frankie who called a time out.”

“That night I went home a loser. My only keepsakes were the two brown bruises on my kneecaps, peeled and bloody from grating against the tarp. [...] I tried my best not to smudge the seat while the driver set the destination. “It’s not actually mud,” I reassured him, to calm his clear unease, “It’s silica, which is a very common ingredient in face wash.” He peered at me nervously through the rear view mirror while I balanced my body, careful not to put my butt fully on the seat. [...] I looked at the reflection of myself in the mirror, mud in my nostrils, covering my earrings, and slicking back my curls. Summer fireworks exploded in the cloudless night. I looked like a creature reborn from the swamp.”