Strong man and the woman

A story of admiration

The Strong Man and the Woman

On Sunday mornings, he liked to sit at the table with his coffee and watch her work. The morning sunlight slanting through the window is caught in her hair, haloing it in ribbons of gold as she bends over her computer. Her eyes darted swiftly across the screen, her face set in unrelenting determination.

For him, it was leisure: a day of rest, idleness wrapped in the smell of coffee. For her, it was already Monday, the workweek breaking into their home, her thoughts moving three steps ahead, her mind a wheel spinning fast. He marvels at how she holds so many threads at once, weaving them into something whole, something useful, something necessary. In the next five minutes she would juggle more calculations, decisions, and ideas than he would the rest of the day.

He wondered often how she bore it—the pace, the pressure, the sheer weight of it all. They were such different beings, he and she. His life was calm strength and singular task oriented, hers was fluid motion and mind gymnastics, and yet somehow, they fit together, puzzle pieces locking into a whole.

Watching her that morning, he remembered a carnival from his boyhood that his parents had taken him to.

It had come once to the little town where he grew up, a traveling show that filled the dusty lot behind the rail station. The posters boasted of wonders—lions, fire-eaters, magicians, tumblers—and of the Strong Man: Titan of the Midway, Marvel of Muscle.

The boy had stood in the crowd, wide-eyed, as the Strong Man bent steel bars, lifted stones, tore thick books in half. The tent thundered with applause. But when the Strong Man stepped aside, folding himself into the shadows of the bleachers, it was the woman who filled the ring.
She was tall, dark-haired, commanding. She introduced the acts, coaxed the animals, juggled flame, pulled endless colored scarves from thin air. She sang with a voice that vibrated in the bones and then climbed the ladder onto the trapeze platform. She swung through the tent, turning herself into a streak of motion and grace. She was everywhere, astonishing, uncontainable.

The Strong Man watched her from the benches, his bulk made small by stillness. The crowd had cheered loudest for him, but his eyes never left her. He watched her as though she was the only light in the universe, the great hands that had crushed stone now folded meekly in his lap. When the acts ended, the performers gathered in the ring to bow. The Strong Man took his wife’s hand. The boy had noticed it even then: he was supposed to be the star, but it was she who carried the show—and the giant adored her for it.

Now, years later the memory lingers in his chest as he watches his own wife, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed tight in concentration. A frown crossed her face. Some line on the screen displeased her. He did not ask. He knew she would untangle it before he could frame the question.

Instead, he rose, padded to the kitchen, sliced some fruit, cut cheese, and poured coffee. He set the plate beside her and brushed a strand of hair from her ear. He bent close, whispering, “Eat, baby,” and kissed the back of her neck.
Gooseflesh rose on her skin. A soft sound escapes her lips and the tension in her shoulder’s dissolved. She did not look away from her work but smiled, soft and knowing. “Thank you,” she purred.

He returned to his chair, picked up a magazine, pretended to read. His eyes wandered back to her, as they always did, drawn and fixed, the way the Strong Man’s had been drawn to his dazzling wife under the tent. He wondered if he bore the same expression now—that look of quiet awe, that surrender to something greater.

He set the magazine aside, leaned toward her. “Hey, beautiful,” he said softly. “Can I lift something heavy for you today?”
She paused looking up at him for the first time all morning. There’s a perplexed smile on her face, the kind that mixes amusement with tenderness. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says, smiling. “I just want to lift a heavy weight for you. Something to help lighten your load.”
Her eyes softened. She held his gaze for a long moment before answering. “You already do,” she said. “Every day. If I didn’t have you to lean on, I wouldn’t make it.”

Then she turned back to her work, her hands flying again over the keys, her mind chasing down a thousand things at once. He watched her in silence, heart full, the way the strong man once watched his whirling tempest in the ring.

Like the Strong Man of long ago, he knew the truth. The world might praise his strength, but it was she who bore the fire, the brilliance, the weight of the show. And he, her strong man, worshipped her.