The Last Performer

“Gracious! How are you?” Me, pretending to recognise him. But I don’t. The years have left him a cripple. Where once was a solid, unblemished face is now a dusty landscape of crinkled matter, a road full of potholes, a skyline of crags. Eyes that were once bright have dimmed and become murky puddles. He used to have a sense for fashion that was always reflected in his hairstyle and his second-hand clothes. Now he wears rags. His hair is long and dirty. His beard is unkempt.

“I’m well. And you?” I can tell he doesn’t recognise me, either. I nod to him and smile, giving him permission to walk on by. But instead he stays, staring at me, rooted in place.

“I’m okay too.” Will he leave now? I close my eyes as tight as I can, wishing that sordid image away. When I open one eye, he is doing the same, wishing me away. It seems we are stuck there, each with an eye shut and an eye open, our gazes unwavering.

Why do we continue to go through this charade of surprise every time we pass? Surely by now we’ve become used to each other’s presence, being the only two people around. Yet every day I wake in the morning and find him, and every day it’s the same ridiculous, forced conversation.

“So, have you been performing?” he asks me.

“No one to perform for,” I reply.

“There’s me.”

“I’m not sure you’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll tip you well. It’s been a while since anyone performed for me.”

“Fine. Shall I juggle?”

“Jugglers are cheap, thus you will be cheaply awarded.”

“Shall I swallow a sword?”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Wonderful. Find me a sword and I shall swallow it.”

“From where am I meant to find a sword?”

“Check your asshole.”

“You are too foul.”

“Oh, please.”

“You are. You stink.”

“So do you.”

“I do not.”

“You do too.”

“I’ll kick your ass.”

“Just try it, I’d love to see that!”

“Alright. Who’s going to throw the first punch?” He smiles dead teeth.

And so it continues until I realise how silly I’m being, talking to my own reflection.