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"Come on, come on, come on, Brad, fence me! Fence me! I'm all warmed up and ready to go!" panted Michael in his strangely high, raspy voice; it was the kind of voice you hear for a bit and forget how strange it is, but every once and a while, perhaps after you have been gone for a time, the oddity of it strides you anew. Brad's mild eyes stared into the positively glowing ones opposite him. The way brown eyes sometimes shine liquid gold.
"Well," said Brad, "I just started putting my stuff away and...."
"Aw, come on! There's no one left to fence!" Michael continued as he leapt from foot to foot energetically, thin-soled fencing shoes thumping on the ground. "It'll be fun!"
"Well, I, um, guess I could," said Brad, cautiously, expressionless.
"Hey!" Michael's face brightened, the light dusting of facial hair darker in the creases of his grin. "Let me run and get my stuff!" As Brad slowly laid out the implements of his hobby in a line, his foil, lame, jacket, mask, glove and body-cord, Michael dashed off; the black and white zebra bandanna, tied around his head karate style-- or at least what he felt to be karate style-- rakishly waved in his wake.
Brad was already suited up and ready to fence, patiently standing on the fencing strip, when Michael finally returned, frolicking in and then flopping on the ground. "Hold on, I've got to find something," he said breathlessly, stirring the contents of his fencing bag wildly and tossing them this way and that. A sweat-stained glove. A blue underarm protector. An old elbow guard. "Aha!" he then said for no apparent reason, and began to suit up, tangling himself in the white nylon jacket repeatedly.
Finally all was ready and Michael joined Brad on the strip, saluting him so enthusiastically that he smacked his foil on the wall. "I'm sorry, so sorry." "Don't worry about it." Michael pulled his mask over his stubbly dark hair and red, embarrassed face. Small, even white teeth bared in exasperation with himself.
"Fencers ready? Fence," came the director's call and they were off, blades clanging and feet thumping. Michael bounced from one side of the strip to the other, swinging his foil around uncontrollably. Suddenly, he flew through the air in a balestra attack, but Brad was calmly prepared with a parry reposte. "Touch to my left," came the call, and Michael sighed forlornly, a repetitive whining sound.
"FENCE!" yet again, and this time Michael's flurry of feints and footwork paid off. A high yelp of triumph escaped his lips as "Touch to my right," was the verdict. Expression unchanging, Brad waited for the continuation of the bout and then calmly and matter-of-factly scored three touches, boom, boom, boom, all with a simple beat attack. At the third touch, a shrill, sad note issued from Michael. "That's going to be some bruise," he said reproachfully, as he resumed the crouched on-guard stance. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Stop fencing like a tall person," said the Maestro from the other strip. "Try fencing like the short person you are. In and out, fast and smooth. Always distance. Hit him. If you can't hit on target, hit off. Stop the action!"
"Aye, sir," said Michael, all formality. Confidence restored, he bounded his way to two more touches, but it was not to be. "Five, three, bout. Shake hands," came the director's decree.
"But, but...It was an insufficient parry. That was my touch," complained Michael breathlessly in his odd high voice.
"I am the director, you are the fencer. Brad's bout," was the reply.
"Hey, Mike, you're doing much better," said the Maestro, interjecting yet again. "You are fencing more like you should be. You just need to practice some more. You're doing fine."
"Thanks," was the glum reply, head drooping, eyes downcast. Then, suddenly, the eyes changed back to their earlier brilliant state. "Hey, Felicia, wanna fence with me, huh? I want to practice. It'll be fun. Brad got me all warmed up, come on!"