January 27, 2004:
After a day of taunting he follows you into the bicycle-and-hobbies store, where he stands mocking each of the model airplane kits you examine one by one.
Freckles. Dirty blue jeans. Dim blue eyes, attractive but unintelligent. Belligerent.
That's about enough of that.
Without warning you swing with your full weight behind your right fist, landing it carefully to the side of his nose where you feel it will do the least damage.
Shock. Eyes wide as the head flies backward under the impact. Two steps backward, hands to face. Tears, and you're thinking, "What did you expect?"
You're not trying to hurt him. You just want it to stop. It does.