scratch...

She woke up itching for a fight. She’d never been

in a brawl, had no experience in the pugilist craft

 

but she wanted just once to try and beat the hell out

of somebody. She figured she’d feel bad afterwards, 

 

would be compelled to apologize, make amends in

some fashion. But that wouldn’t be a problem because

 

she’d lived most of her life that way, saying I’m sorry,

doing what was necessary for reconciliation even when

 

the words were premature and the kiss and make-up

manufactured just so the gods would be at ease again.

 

She realized the chances were better than good she’d 

be the one the floor was mopped up with but the lust

 

for blood in her mouth and bruises on her otherwise

uncolored life was something she could no longer duck.

 

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