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.