The door shut with the sort of cheap snap that could only come from a trailer that had seen far too many miles. A sigh broke from Tom’s throat. Tom, like his trailer, had seen too many miles, each one marked by regret. He raked his hand through his hair, smearing white Kryolan into layers of sweat and dust. It was her favourite makeup, Kryolan. Kryolan, Caroline. Caroline. His eyes swept to the mirror, which held her picture in the corner of the frame.

He picked up his black greasepaint pencil, and marked another tally on the mirror’s face. One for each moment he felt like turning back or dying. He’d need a new mirror, soon.

Aching feet shuffled slowly, and callused fingers fumbled with bra clasps beneath his pearl-buttoned shirt. Two bruised grapefruits fell to the floor with a soft thunk, and one tired body fell to the couch with an expulsion of breath. Taking air back in his lungs, Tom found comfort in the familiar scent of hay. It had a sweeter scent than most hay, blending earthiness and sugar like a frosted wheat biscuit.

He picked up a red greasepaint pencil, and marked a tally on the glass table by the couch. One mark for each moment of mirth. He wouldn’t be needing a new table any time soon.

Aching feet shuffled back to the mirror. Black mark. Why were happy moments so few and far between?

Caroline. That was why. She always held his heart, his happiness. And Tom had left her. Without a word, he left her. Another black mark – he felt like turning back, going back to her to explain. But for what? Surely she wouldn’t forgive him. She’d rather him stay gone forever. No doubt. Black mark – he felt like dying.

Tom turned to the closet and carefully peeled the shirt off his bruised back. Those horses were particularly nasty today, so he had to take many a dive into barrels to distract them from riders. Life as usual, though, he took every kick like a champ. Rather than challenge the world and change the situation, he just kept taking his kicks. A real pro – an honest to God glutton for punishment.

His heart jumped when the phone rang. Caroline? he thought, picking it up from the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, hi, Tom… how’s your knocks?”

“Not bad, Boss,” he lied. “I’ll live, as always.”

“Oh, that’s great. Great.” Boss was taken by his smoker’s lungs, practically seizing over the phone for two long minutes.

Tom let out a sigh, born of disgust and exhaustion. “Yeah, great.”

“Well listen, Tom. It’s good to hear you’re okay. But you know when they say, last one on, first one off?” Boss paused, hoping for a lead to continue. When Tom did not oblige, he continued. “Attendance is down, rodeos not bein’ as popluar as they was. You clownin’ fellas are too expensive to keep on.”

“Seven bucks an hour, and you can’t keep me on?” Tom foamed.

“Insurance, boy. Insurance. Risky job you have. Premiums are too high. I’m sorry.”

“Like hell you are.”

Boss paused again, angry puffs of breath breaking over the receiver. “Like I said, sorry. Next show, you won’t be there but to pick up your check.”

Tom stood staring at the phone in his hands, speechless. He shook his head, breathing in calm resolve. Anguished feet shuffled back to the mirror and callused hands took up the greasepaint pencil. Black mark. He had nothing left to lose, now… nowhere else to go but back to her.