Memory, Week 2

It was probably October when I first saw them, before time had fallen back. That's the only time in Carrollton, Georgia when the days are still alight at around seven o'clock, but the air also carries that crispness that's chill enough to be invigorating but not enough to freckle my legs with goosebumps. I don't remember where I was coming from; it could have been a late-ending class or even the library where I had been doing some research for a midterm paper, but as I crossed the quad, I first heard loud banging and then saw two figures going at each other with sticks. My first reaction was to alert the campus police, but I then realized that the figures were surrounded by a group of other people lounging on the grass in the slanting light and that one person watching leaned against a tree dressed in a police officer's uniform complete with a red patch of flame on the right shoulder. The two figures danced on tip-toe around one another, studying the others moves. One held a short stick in one hand and a makeshift shield in the other. As I got nearer, I noticed the unmistakable flash of a stop sign peak from the underside of the shield and heard the clash of solidity against metal as the other figure leveled a quick blow from over his head, the blow glanced of the shield, and he rebounded out of reach. This figure carried a stick that looked to be about twice the length of the other's, and which he wielded with both hands. This figure also wore a long black dress that was held tight against his chest by a leather vest of black and dark brown. Along what could be seen of his forearms were plates of some hard black material; his head was covered with a beaten, dark steel helm. He backpedaled away from the other figures advances, eventually blocking a blow with his long sword, dancing around to the the other's backside, and making ready to hit from behind. The other figure was quick, however, and the dark figure's jab only glanced off the edge of his shield. This figure was dressed in a white dress that was longer than the dark figure's. Something bulky was secured across his chest, but the dress was fitted over it. His hands were covered with bright silver metal and his helm hurt my eyes as it reflected the setting sun. I noted rather snidely to myself at the time that these two would make the perfect, stereotypical figures for a medieval fight of good and evil. Little did I know that "evil" would one day be my husband.