Fight

| 1 |

I slump onto the wooden stool and open—he peels out my mouthguard, and I immediately taste blood and metallic anger. Ice water stings the source and slows the bleeding, but I can still taste the dull salt.

I stare at him across the ring. He's secretly gasping for air and holding back a wince, so as not to show weakness. His corner is frantically warning him—I'd fight them, too, everyone.

His random throws barely hit their mark. A straight-right, however, managed to slip my defense and caught me on the cheek, fusing skin to my mouthpiece. I blindly retaliated with a furious combination that was absent of strategy but pure rage, nonetheless. 

“What'r you doin out there?" he annoyingly asks. The few in attendance shift in their seats. He yells at me like it's a full house.

"At least you hurt 'em good with that liver shot; he’ll be protecting that from now on. If you make 'em turn to his left, he'll drop his right to protect it, so look for another opening.”

He motions for me to drink; I refuse.  

“Keep yer head movin’ and watch for that straight right, goddamnit!”

His words make it to my ear, but I am unaware if they are understood. Every swallow of rusty saliva deafens me. Malice funnels into immobile fingers, eager to collide with someone I've never met.

He's nobody to me—a hollow name on a bill of events—but I despise him as if he is the reason I’m here and not with her. I feel a burn of murderous intentions and am afraid of my capabilities.

Ice water slaps my face, forcing me to gasp for clarity.

“Snap out of it!” he yells, “You alright?”

I look at him with a desperation unseen for many years.

“Remember yer training, and don’t get careless, goddamnit.”

With a furrowed brow, he looks at me with concern; it irons flat, and he forces a drink.

“Go kill this guy,” he calmly says. The bell rings.

| 2 |

...(ding-dong) Doors closing...

I quickly climbed the stairs two at a time but not out of tardiness. In fact, I was well over a half-hour early. Two trains were arriving and departing behind me, swirling the subterranean air.

I reached the sub-level slightly out of breath and walked around the news stand, paying little attention to the Tribune’s headline:
Former President Ronald Regan dies at 93.

At the next set of stairs leading to the northeast corner of Clark and Division, I slowed my pace to weave between map-toting tourists. The stairwell was congested. Dozens emerged out of and submerged into the subway. A sharp shadow midway up the concrete stairs divided artificial and natural light, forcing eyes to adjust.

As I reached street-level, I paused to squint at the sky. I'd forgotten my sunglasses, and the sun was blazing at full force on the cloudless Saturday afternoon. I checked my watch: 25 minutes early.

With nothing to do but wait, I studied my surroundings for a shady spot to bide my time. Given that there were no chairs or trees for blocks, I tested the stability of a weekly newspaper holder caught in a sliver of shadow. Confident that it would support my weight, I turned around to hoist myself on the plastic box, still warm and pliable from baking in the late-spring sun. I received strange and dismissive looks, but I was too preoccupied with anxious excitement to be annoyed by anyone.

I knew she wouldn’t arrive for some time, but it didn’t stop me from looking for her. I skimmed the crowd in each direction; she was nowhere in sight. I felt sadness and abandonment come to a head, which was temporarily neutralized after checking my watch once again:
15 minutes.

An image of her flashed before my open eyes, which prompted an involuntary smile. I hadn’t seen her in months, yet every angle and shadow of her face remained a perfectly preserved memory stored and recallable on command.

Our eventual meeting that day was an upstream battle. Perhaps the universe suggested that our winding paths would never cross, but our determination prevailed, and what was once a fleeting moment was becoming ours for the taking.

The last time we saw each other before that day was the first time we were officially introduced. Although we had known of each other before that night, shy elevator rides, dead-end lovers, and lost phones numbers barred us from prematurely meeting.

I checked my watch and kicked my legs against the box, taking notice of my shoes. Worried that my shoes didn’t go with my thrift-store shirt, I envisioned her taking one look at me, shaking her head at her memory’s inaccuracy, and walking away in disgust. I sighed away the semi-realistic scenario and contemplated going home to change. 

With one last kick and thud, I looked up and there she was. My mind captured the moment and archived it deep in protected memory.

Her auburn hair gathered at her right side, spiraling at a final moment. A subtle left ear peeked behind her neck, leading to freckled shoulders that slanted her slim figure.

Genuinely happy to be reacquainted after our hiatus, she beamed a smile. We squinted at each other; the seconds became centuries.

"You forgot yours, too?" I asked, sliding down from the box. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked me over.

Perhaps it was coincidence that we both forgot, or maybe we wanted to show we were done hiding—it didn't matter. Our connection at that moment, and the incalculable moments to follow, would never break.

“Nice shoes,” she said. I blushed.

| 3 |

My face flushed red, as I stood in my room in front of my older brother.

“Put yer hands up,” he said. I didn’t understand.

“Put yer hands up, like this!” he demanded. He brought his forearms together and raised his knuckles just below his thick frames; the back of his fists facing me. I mirrored his pose but with much less conviction.

“Now that yer in junior high, yer gonna get picked on. And at this school, there's a ton more of their kind than your kind. I wouldn't be surprised if you’re the only chinky-eyed one there.”

His words were slightly muffled behind his guard, but they struck me with fear just the same. He jabbed the back of my hands, sending electric pain down my wrist. Of all the years watching Saturday-night boxing with my dad, I didn’t expect our sparring match to begin without a bell. 

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