Ecstasy of a Beating Heart

Sunlight slanted through the grimy windows of the American diner, painting checkered floors and worn Formica booths in warm stripes. The Fighter hunched at a corner table, hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin, his long brown hair crammed into a messy bun that barely stayed put. A baseball cap pulled low shadowed his face, and his fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the syrup‑sticky table. His mind churned in endless loops.

His plate of pancakes arrived, positively drowning in maple syrup (+$12.99), but the fork sat idle beside it.

Raul slid into the booth across from him, his leather jacket creaking softly — the one covered front to back in a chaotic constellation of pins and the fresh patches he'd sewn himself just last night. A star‑shaped afro crowned the punk armor, bobbing as he grinned and set his beat‑up canvas bag down with a thud. He looked like rebellion wrapped in sunshine.

"Earth to champ?" Raul said, leaning forward. "I looked for you outside — thought you'd bolted. Nice cloak, by the way. Ninja champ?"

The Fighter tugged his hood tighter, eyes flicking to the door out of habit.

"Not funny. I get recognized everywhere now — casual clothes, grocery runs, even gym hoodies. Fans snap pics, ask questions. Hood stays up. Feels safer."

Raul nodded, unfazed, and flagged down the waitress for two more stacks of pancakes with extra syrup. His grin didn't waver, afro bouncing slightly as he settled in.

"I've noticed you're fraying lately. The media's chewing you up nonstop. Plus you're overworking yourself — endless interviews, gym grind, too much on your mind. It's breaking you down slowly."

The Fighter forked up a bite of pancake, the sweetness grounding him for a moment as syrup dripped from the edge.

"I feel it."

"Then let's fix it," Raul said. "I'm heading back to Créteil soon — family's calling me home. Come with me. Fresh bakers, loud markets, no press breathing down your neck."

He slid an envelope across the table. Inside, an airline ticket: ORD to CDG.

"I expected you'd hesitate. Here's your ticket — Paris. Elena's busy with that art thing anyway; she won't miss us. She's a homebody — she'll tell you to 'go breathe.' Then we do a punk zigzag across the US — shows, street stuff. Real reset."

Steam rose from the fresh pancakes between them. Raul's easy light cut through the fog in the Fighter's head like morning. He nodded slowly, the hood dipping forward just a fraction. For the first time in weeks, something like possibility ; sweet as syrup started to take shape.