by Barbara A. Barnett
Keith touches a hand to his nose, and I'm not sure what surprises him more: the blood my left hook drew, or the fact that his boxing gloves have suddenly disappeared.
"How did you--"
I slug Keith again. Keith doesn't get dream logic, which is why he shouldn't be narco-boxing. But it's the latest fad so he just has to get on board with it, a badge of cool to add to his generically perfect looks and the girlfriend he cheats on and that big fat promotion because he's got leadership potential, while I'm just bossy and shrill.
Only narco-boxing is my thing, not his. Jab, jab, one-two combo. A twig of a girl like me shouldn't be able to take a guy Keith's size, but that's how dream logic works--suddenly the boxing ring becomes your grandmother's living room and instead of gloves you're decking someone with a loaf of bread while that weird freckled kid from the sixth grade is cheering you on from the sidelines even though you can't remember his name.
Keith takes a swing but misses my face because suddenly I'm about a foot taller. His glove--'cause his mitts are back on now--bounces off my chest the way those two kids are bouncing on that trampoline in the corner where the ref was standing a second ago.