He holds the small weighted bags in his hands. In another room his wife undresses, and she will wait for him in bed while he practices. She will read a book or not read a book. She will leave the light on, or turn it off so he will have to enter the room in darkness. "Our lives now," he thinks, "are full of signals. "

 

A year before the circus closed and he gave his last performance in a small Ohio town on the floor of dirt, the animals pacing in their cages as the swords he balanced in the air cut through the dust. As always there had been applause, the coming together of hands. He had remained long after the others had left and watched as men who smelled of beer and forgetfulness pulled the tents to the ground. He had seen the dust that rose into the air, and walked away.

 

His wife's job had kept them alive. At first he let her watch him practice, and she would applaud. Then he told her he did not want anyone to watch, and now he raises the objects into their circles of air alone.

 

"Why can't I watch you?" his wife asks as he lies down beside her. He does not answer but reaches over and pulls her close. He feels her body move with her breath, and it is enough for him. He cannot talk anymore. Soon she is asleep and he listens to her breath in the dark. He wonders what she is dreaming, and cups her warm head in his palm. After a time, he sleeps.

 

During the day his wife goes to work. He sleeps late, and when he wakes she is always gone. Today a note written with black crayon in large letters is taped to the bathroom mirror. WHY CAN'T I WATCH? I WANT TO WATCH. YOUR WIFE. The paper blocks his reflection as he shaves. He loves the simplicity of the letters and their message. "There can be no mistake what these words mean," he thinks, drying his face. He carries the note into the room where he practices and tapes it to the wall. He exercises his fingers and reads the words over and over. "Watch," he whispers, and begins.

 

His life has become a succession of rituals. He moves the objects through the air as though this act were a sacrifice, and recites the words of his wife's note. The simple message becomes a chant. He practices for a long time.

 

When his wife comes home he is outside working in the garden. She looks in his practice room and sees her note taped to the wall. That night, while he practices before coming to bed, she sits at her desk, naked, with a clean piece of paper and a black crayon. She stares at the paper a long time and. then writes, NO ONE IS HERE WITHOUT ME. LET ME BE HERE.

 

YOUR WIFE. She hides the note in her drawer and goes to bed to wait for her husband.

 

He finds the new note in the bathroom and thinks, "This one is even more beautiful than the first. Somehow, when we talk we never communicate this well. " He tapes it to the wall next to the first and chants them both as he practices. The objects dance to the music of her words.

 

His wife comes home from work and they eat dinner and then sit down before the television. He turns on the set and they watch "Circus of the Stars." He watches the celebrities perform awkwardly and begins to cry, his palms heavy and empty in his lap. His wife kneels in front of him and puts her arms around his legs and sets her head on his knee. They do not move for a long time, then he reaches out and turns off the TV.

 

"Let's go to bed," he says. She raises her head from his knee.

 

"Aren't you going to practice?" she asks.

 

"Not tonight," he says.

 

Later his wife gets out of bed while he pretends to be asleep. She turns on a desk lamp and pulls out paper and a large black crayon. She sits without writing until he is ready to whisper her name, then she starts. He cannot see the words and is asleep before she returns to bed.

 

He stands in front of the note. ONLY AMATEURS FALL INTO NETS. THERE IS NO NET TO CATCH THE TRUE FALL. YOUR WIFE. He reads this one longer than the others. Once he saw a woman fall from the wire during a rehearsal when there was no crowd to scream. It was very quiet. She hit the net and flew back into the air over and over like a rag doll. He wondered then who held her up on the wire, who had let go. Now he thinks about the many ways there must be to lose touch with the earth. He looks down at his own feet and carries the note into his practice room, stepping carefully through the house. He does not want to fall. He is not sure of what is below him.