. No, I was in a car accident. Last week." She twists her arm and I let her go, "As if I'd even talk to you if you hit me." She fake laughs again and ...urries into the building.I broke her arm. A week later, her pretty face is still black-n-blue. I'm not an asshole; I'm not good enough to be an asshole.As soon as most everybody's inside, I smoke another cigarette less because I want one and more because it gives me something to do with my hands other than punch a wall. Maybe all those bruises. Doing anything about the thoughts that crossed my mind from time to time would just have felt wrong. The clock rolled on. I was fiftyfive and Fi thirtyone. I had given up working as a psychiatric nurse and was now working as a massage practitioner and aromatherapist. My contact with Fi since she went professional had all been via facebook. After the death of my wife, I felt a real need to connect with some of the people from my past. The life assurance pay out was enough to let me do this. More

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