This was a little something inspired by a randomly selected word from my “Word of the Day” document.
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“You know,” P.T. Barnum muses under his breath as he watches his partner take the center ring; coattails flickering like twirling crimson ribbons behind the younger man, gold accoutrements glinting under the spotlights, strong legs flexing with ease and finesse. Barnum’s eyes linger on the shape of Phillip Carlyle’s body, sweeping over every inch of Phillip visible from Barnum’s vantage point.
Compact but staggeringly elegant frame. Toned arms that swell with muscle even under the layers of shirtsleeves hiding them away. A sturdy chest sculpted so precisely, it’s as though the finest artists among Heaven’s ranks crafted it from a slab of marble and deigned to gift it to a mere mortal.
Though, Barnum isn’t entirely convinced that Phillip is not a wingless seraph sentenced to roam the earth for the remainder of his days.
And, most decidedly of no less importance than the others, another prominent and pleasing feature that has Barnum’s eyes riveted on the younger man while Phillip gambols about, hyping up the crowd and waving their shared cane to proudly showcase all of the acts posing and whirling and performing feats to dazzle and defy the comprehension of a closed-off mind.
A feature that inspires Barnum to finish his thought with: “Phil’s of a rather Callipygian physique, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Cal-a…?” Lettie Lutz, their bearded lady, puzzles out beside him. She isn’t due to take the ring until the closing act of the night, and has been standing at Barnum’s side for some time, now, her presence companionable.
Barnum feels himself grinning as Phillip tosses the cane up to Anne Wheeler when the lovely trapeze artist swings by, then maneuvers across the sand and sawdust covered floor on his knees with a dancer’s grace, the brilliance of Phillip’s smile obvious even from feet away, under the stands.
Pride is nowhere close to adequate a term for the warm swell of emotions rising like a tide in Barnum’s chest.
This feeling that far exceeds pride, and something much more visceral, and shameless, are what he observes Phillip with, eyes training of their own accord on the globes of that pleasingly prominent feature blessedly accentuated by the snug fit of Phillip’s riding breeches.
And, it is this shameless appraisal that has Lettie nudging Barnum, a Cheshire grin pulling at her lips. “Barnum, did you just say that Phillip has a great–?”
Barnum coughs, his throat suddenly congested, cravat too tight. He feels heat blooming in his face. “I should, uh. Go check on the–” He stammers out, uselessly, before hurrying away from Lettie, very aware that the woman is laughing boisterously at his retreating back.
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