a centaur’s blood is always poison

by Mario Aliberto III

Blood pumping, sweat dripping, furnace heat of spin class, cantaloupe-flesh-colored lights pulsing in time to a techno beat, and nineteen riders pedaling as if fleeing a world on fire. Deja watched Ness’s thighs swell as he pedaled. Ness’s bike shorts were a tantalizing lacquer of black spandex contoured to the shape of his quads. The preposterous size of his legs, pumping up and down, striated where the muscles met and sweat ran in rivulets, had dominated her fantasies the last few weeks.

Ness faced the nineteen riders, his headset’s microphone teasing his lips, and pointed at the empty bike in the front row next to Deja. “Orange shirts! We got a no show. Ask yourself. Are you showing up?” Ness’s commands crackled through the speakers. “Push. C’mon now, y’all. Give it to me. Don’t stop.”

The members in their orange t-shirts cheered like cultists. Deja peddled and hunched over her handlebars and huffed. The bass pounded in time with her revolutions, pounded with her unrelenting desire to caress Ness’s glorious thighs, thick and wet. His legs belonged to some primitive species of man long extinct and served only the dual purposes of pedaling and seducing her.

“Don’t stop,” Ness called.

The class responded, Don’t stop,

Deja exhaled, moaned softly, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

After class, sitting in her Jeep beneath a marmalade sky, a damp towel over her head, soreness settles into Deja’s legs. On her phone, a single missed call from Henry. In her heart, it was as if she had already betrayed him.

There had been arguments about Henry not joining her for spin class. A membership she gifted him on his birthday. Something to bring them back together. She reserved a bike for him next to her every class. Henry made excuses. He played golf, got plenty of fresh air and exercise. Plus, he was invested in the twelve goals he set for his social media management company. Getting his new assistant trained. A pretty young blonde, he left out, of course. Really, he didn’t have the time.

Every class she hoped Henry would show. Hoped he would choose her. She threw her phone down and turned the ignition key. Clickclickclick. How many times had Henry promised he’d replace her battery?

Deja looked around the deserted commercial buildings of Ybor City. No one around. The rest of class already gone. A knock on the window startled her. Ness on his road bike, dark eyes reflecting yellows and reds from the sunset, tinder catching fire. She popped the door. His thighs close enough to touch.

“Battery?” Ness asked. “Got jumper cables?”

“No.”

“Got someone to call?”

Deja looked at her phone. The missed call. “Nope.”

Ness looked up the road, back to her. “How far do you live?”

“Fifteen minutes.” She pointed. “That way.”

He scooted forward, leaving her his seat. “Hop on. I got you.”

A smile she couldn’t fight. “You serious?”

He slapped his thigh. “Best ride in town.”

Ness held out his hand for her keys and phone and tucked them inside a fanny pack strapped across his body like a bandolier. She placed her hands on his shoulders and sat on the bike seat. Her feet rested on the back wheel’s small pegs, her hamstrings cramping. Ness smelled sweet, like something baked, a hot pastry. He didn’t ask if she was ready, just started peddling, standing tall and straight on the pedals.

The bike moved faster than Deja thought possible, wind whipping her hair, the sound of rubber on asphalt, sticky tread of tires echoing in the valley of buildings. She let her hands wander down his muscular back as they accelerated. She lost herself in the rhythm of his peddling. Rested her face against his warm shoulder. Her hands drifted from his waist to his thighs. Her hands peddled along with his legs. He chuckled and rode harder. The transfer of motion from his legs through his core entered her arms and spread throughout her body. It were as if she mounted a stallion, wild and powerful, knowing she could be thrown at any moment.

“There’s my apartment,” she said, breathlessly.

The bike cruised to a stop. He held her hand as she climbed down. Her thighs ached, her knees weak. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Hmmm.” His head tilted, as if he had come to a decision. “I know a smoothie place nearby. My treat.”

The sun vanished behind the rooftop of her building. “I can’t.”

Ness handed over her keys and phone. “Boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend.” Deja became acutely aware of her quickening heartbeat.

 “The no show?” Ness put his feet on the pedals, pedaled backwards, balanced the bike effortlessly.

Deja scratched absently at the back of her hand with a key.

“If a man no shows a beautiful woman like you,” Ness said, staring into her eyes, “you have to wonder why.”

“Oh, I wonder. Trust me.” She looked away while she could still deny the urge to kiss him.

“I’ll ask again. Next class.” Ness pedaled off, and as the distance grew there was no difference between him and the bike.

Inside the apartment, Henry leaned against the refrigerator wearing one of Ness’s orange t-shirts and drinking a soda. The shirt loose everywhere it was tight on Ness. Henry plucked the shirt away from his body and let it fall back into place, the orange color embers of a dying fire.

“Was going to surprise you at spin class, but I got tied up.”

“She good at knots?” Deja said, joking, but not really.

“Who?”

“The woman tying you up?”

“Stop,” he said, laughing, but not really.

Henry pulled Deja to him. She put her head on his chest, her hands floating across his body, down to his thighs, thin and soft and so ordinary.

Photo of Mario Aliberto III

BIO: Mario Aliberto III is the author of All the Dead We Have Yet to Bury (Chestnut Review, 2025), and his short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, trampset, and other fine journals. A graduate with a Creative Writing degree from the University of South Florida, he lives in Tampa Bay with his wife and daughters, and yet the dog still runs the house. Find him online at marioaliberto3.com