It takes you a while over there, and it kills me to have walked out of that room. You know I’ve always liked the staging part. Which is why it takes everything in me not to go back and finish this fight, but I won’t give you the satisfaction. I have staying power, and so instead I pour myself a drink and I pace. I will wait you out. That much I can do.
Finally, when I hear you making your way through the door, I stop pacing. You stand there, removing your gloves, wiping the sweat from your brow, and it’s a dig at me, the kind you offer best without words. You watch me as I down the last of my drink and then you pour yourself one I doubt you’ll really drink.
“Cheers,” I offer, but it sounds like ‘f**k you,’ which it is, and I hate that we haven’t touched glasses. It’s bad luck, and certai
