dragonlady7

“I heard he hit you first,” I say into the phone.

K’s voice is indistinct, but his diction is clear; it’s the phone reception, and the fact that he’s probably holding it between his face and shoulder as he’s cooking. “Damn right,” he says. “Well, to be fair, he hit her first, and that’s what started it.”

“Wait, whoa, he hit the girl? I’m amazed you let him live.” I’d had a few scanty details secondhand via text and his slurred voice in the background the night before, but nothing detailed.

“There were probably four people in the place,” he says. “Me, the barmaid, the guy, and one other customer. Damn it this spatula isn’t big enough.” He trails off into muttering, then comes back clearer as he evidently shifts the phone closer to his mouth. “I was just there to… I wasn’t really there to get drunk, I just wanted to get out… get out of the house, really. I just needed a little space. So I had just got my drink. And the bartender was arguing with this guy, her ex-boyfriend. She was telling him he had to get out. So he backhands her, right across the face. Hang on.” He fades out, and something scuffles, and thumps.

“There.” He’s much clearer now.

“He really hit her,” I say.

“Yeah.” His voice rises, in remembered incredulity. “So I stood up and went over and said You’re gonna have to leave now, and he got up in my face and said It’s none of yours, and I said, again, clearer, You’re going to have to leave. So he says, You wanna fight about it? And calm as anything, I looked him up and down and said, Actually? Yeah.”

“Oh, perfect,” I say.

“So he hauls off and hits me. It was kind of a nothin’ hit, a drunk swing, though actually my jaw hurt pretty bad after. And I woke up this morning with a bloody nose but I think that was just the dry air, I don’t think he got me that good. So everything went into slow motion, like it does– he hits me, and then I see him looking at my right hand, ready for me to swing back. So I hit him with my left. Left to the face, then a right to the body. And he just dropped into a little heap. I kicked him, pretty hard, in the gut, cuz you know, I had kind of a lot of anger to work through. It’s been a while. Then I scooped him up and put him out the door.”

“Nice,” I say, and he laughs.

“I know I didn’t break his jaw because he mumbled something about calling the police. I said Sure, go ahead. He hit me first, and there were witnesses that saw it, so I wasn’t worried. I shut the door, came back inside, went back to my chair, sat down, took a breath, and time went back from slow motion to normal. And the bartender comes over, and says, calm and quiet, just like that, Thanks. Want a drink?”

“And you did,” I say.

“Fuck yes,” he said. “I’d already started in on a triple of Jameson– one of those rocks glasses, about three quarters full– and a tall Guinness, and she brought me another of each, and then I had another Jameson after that, and then we went down the street and I had another triple Jameson and a tall Guinness. And I felt better.”

“You sounded pretty damn cheerful on the phone last night,” I point out.

“Oh hell yes,” he says. “There’s nothing as satisfying as a good bar fight, you know?”

“I’m kind of surprised you’re this OK this morning,” I say. “Last night you took S’s phone and were telling me something involved about finishing your drink because of St. Patrick and your ancestors, but you pronounced it ansheshtors.”

“I don’t remember that,” he said. “But I’m guessing the giant glass of water I had, and then the tactical decision to go make myself throw up, between the last Jameson and the last Guinness, are probably why I woke up bright-eyed and ready to go, if a little bloody, at 7 am. I’ve been cookin’ ever since. Hey I gotta go, I’ll call you once the food’s been served.”