The dragon

He moved as an unpredictable blur. His sweat dusted my face. A pungeant musk lingered stale in the stale. Shined dress shoes flit from back to front, back to front. A dragon tattoo covering his right arm mirrored his footwork: a fierce river, the dragon cascaded like a waterfall as his arms tensed and relaxed, throwing jab after playful jab. Eyes stared empty, expressionless, but emotive with calculated fierceness.

The waterfall ricchocheted against sinew. The dragon charged. Pain blinded me--my head rocked back. Blood gushed out my nose and down to my lips. The sharp taste of iron was a good appetizer to this feast.

I could take him. As my eyes came back into focus, I moved with him. His muscles under his skin were his tell. I became his doppelgangar, swaying with the dragon and looking for an opening. His mind was as sharp as his knuckles though, and he caught on to my tactic. His direction changed. Hands moved through stances, guards, and feints. Like a magician, his prestidigitation obscured intent.

The dragon surged forth in a right hook. I weaved and crouched then countered with a blow towards his jaw. This was my opening.

The tiny white hairs on my ear prickled as his fist brushed against them. He had missed. But that was his intent, I only found out after. His fist had only been a shadow to distract. Again, my vision flashed purple as his elbow collided hard with my temple. The dragon snaked downwards, taking my arm with it in a lock. My feet flipped skyward; the floor struck my cheek harder than he ever had.

I came to with him hovering over me.

“You done?” he asked. His eyes drooped, tired, as though the dragonfire had seared away with the end of the fight.

“Never,” I responded, and he hauled me to my feet. There was only one more week left, and I wasn’t anywhere close to being ready.