It all started with the ring. Not the ring Radney gave Roshelle over lasagna in candlelight ten years ago in September. Nor the gold band he gave her a year later. But the wrestling ring he built in back of their split-level ranch home with blue shutters and salmon brick in Montgomery, Alabama. Radney wanted to be a professional wrestler since he first saw Hulk Hogan with a blond mane and protruding pecs glistening on TV. Roshelle wanted Radney to be one too. When she was a kid, her dad used to take her to the armory every other Saturday to sit in the front row and watch grown men in speedos pin each other to a bouncy floor. Their sweat soaked her red dress, cotton sticking to her legs. “How’s that for a good show,” her dad always said as they walked into the night, the air chilling her wet skin.

When Radney announced he was going to build the ring, Roshelle was elated, absolutely over the moon, hugging and kissing him as if it were their wedding night. They hauled posts and plywood, tires and turnbuckles, rope and tarp to their backyard, cutting away all the grass and shrubs for their dream. After six weeks of digging holes, fitting wood, and stacking tires, they had their ring – posts stained dark brown and the cushiony mat creamy white. To celebrate, they brought out their fluffy bed pillows and flamingo quilt bought at a sample sale to christen the mat under the stars. They didn’t even notice the mosquitoes.

Now was the time to begin sparring. Radney called three of his wrestling buddies, who said they were busy with wives or sons. But Radney heard them bluffing – they’d lost their love for the sport. No more long nights and yells for clinch fighting. His friends were scattered. No more sharing tales of how the Hulkster pinned Nick Bockwinkel for the last time. Like a kid who’d lost his first dog, Radney dragged himself to the kitchen and opened a Miller.

“Come on, I’ll spar with you.” In her gray shorts and burgundy T-shirt, Roshelle was eager to take to the mat. He knew she loved the sport, going to matches with her dad then with Radney, screaming until she could barely whisper.

“Sure, let’s go,” he said. “I’ll be easy on you.”

“OK. But you’re going to get all of me.”

They stepped into the ring ready for practice. She danced around him, one leg sliding into the other, tapping his chest but ducking before he could take hold. Finally, he grabbed her and tossed her against the ropes. She rebounded and came in low, dodged his kick and took his feet out from under him. Falling on him, her elbow knocked out his breath. Blood drizzling from his face, his lip split and his nose scuffed, he rolled over just in time to see Roshelle launch herself from the top of the post. As she descended, arms spreading like an angel and wind blowing through her hair, Radney realized that he had never loved her more.

Chella Courington is a writer and teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, X-R-A-Y Magazine, and New Flash Fiction. A Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net nominee, Courington was raised in the Appalachian south and now lives in California. Her recent origami micro chapbook of poetry, Good Trouble, will be available soon at http://www.origamipoems.com.