I can think of better things to do with a fist.

After I had clocked him, Janusz fell onto the floor. Inasmuch as I didn't want blood on the shag rug, I stood there motionless, anticipating his next move. From his foetal position, he called out:

"Theodore, you always act like the tough guy with your manly forarms and your furry chest and you are anything but." His Polish accent sounded really ugly this time, in fact he said some nasty Polish words before closing with, "you will never be a man." With that, I took my left foot and kicked him in the gut. Next, I went into my bedroom and closed the door.

I wasn't crying at all, but my fist sure was. The human hand wasn't made to bluntly strike the bones of anyone's face. Nursing the inferno of anger and pain in my left hand, I considered the chain of events that led up to the surge of lowlife exhiliration I was experiencing. Knuckles bleeding, having just won a battle, I sure felt powerful, but quickly realized I was no better than a wild animal.

I had to get some ice for my hand, which meant that I had to pass by his wilted body on the floor, but when I looked down for him, all I saw was a bloodstain on the shag rug. The kitchen door to my apartment was open and he had gone up to the roof.

"I forgive you," I told him. He was standing at the edge of the building with his hands in his pockets and his face was bright red. "Janusz, just come inside." I felt like I was dealing with Emma from Falcon Crest, so I didn't want him to start feeling shitty and jump onto the pavement. I went up to him and held him for awhile and then we went back inside.

His body was all stiff; it felt like he needed someone to hold him. Since I had just hurt him deeply, I didn't complain about being forced to offer him comfort. He didn't say anything to me the entire time. I sat there holding his hand and gave him an ice pack for his eye while he laid on the couch. After about an hour, he silently collected his things and left.