TKO by Tom Schreck

Marcia reminded people a lot of the folk singer Jewel, who recently went sort of glam with her look. I had hoped Marcia would follow suit, but she didn’t.
    “Hey, Duff,” she said. “I left you a note.”
    “A note?”
    “I don’t know if it’s something I can talk about. My therapist—”
    “Your therapist?”
    “Yeah, I’ve been seeing someone.”
    “Uh-huh,” I said. Every chick I saw wound up seeing a therapist. Usually right before she broke up with me.
    “She thinks it would be best if I wasn’t in a relationship right now. I still want to be friends.”
    “Friends, huh?” I’ve been around long enough to know that when your girlfriend wanted to be your friend, she was really telling you she didn’t want to have sex with you anymore. But, if she needed to talk with you to spew a bunch of therapist-induced drivel when she’s lonely, she wanted to reserve the right to call you. That would make me a kind of emotional tampon she could pull out once a month when she needed it.
    “Yeah, we can be friends, right?”
    “Sure,” I heard myself say.
    “You don’t sound like you mean it.”
    “I’m going to need a little time to process this.” I’ve learned that if you use the word “process,” women think you’re being a feeling kind of guy.
    “Okay, that’s fair, Duff.” She sniffled and there was that awkward moment when you know something’s over and there isn’t anything left to be said. Actually, it was a bit of a relief because she’d been weirding out on me for a while. Just the same, it still left a sickish feeling. It had been about six months, which had been about my girlfriend duration for the last few years, and I’ve gotten a bit used to the whole breakup scene. A bit too used to it.
    I was tranced out when I opened the door to the Blue and forgot about Allah-King, who kicked me right in the nuts as I opened the door. No longer in a trance, I bent over, grabbing my nuts while Al spun around in enthusiastic circles. I straightened up and Al jumped up and kicked me in the nuts a second time. They were two good shots and I felt my eyes well up just a bit. Tears ran down my cheeks.
    I flopped on the couch, lying on my back to ease the pain in the nuttage, and Al jumped up with me. He awkwardly made his way up the length of my body and intermittently licked and bit my ears. It wasn’t exactly what I’d call recuperative relaxation, but, to be honest, I appreciated his company. Marcia was an emotional ditz and I knew we weren’t going anywhere, but I didn’t really need the reminder that once again a relationship of mine crashed and burned. Rationally, I knew it wasn’t a reflection on my worth. Rationally, I knew I would be fine, probably better off, and rationally, I knew it was an opportunity to meet someone better suited for me. Realistically, I was bummed.
    I lay on the couch, watching afternoon cable. I took a fake nap, closing my eyes and doing my best impersonation of sleep. There was an episode of Hawaii Five-O on, and McGarrett just ordered Danno and Chin to get a bunch of uniforms and “seal off this rock.” I wished I were McGarrett. McGarrett had the power to get uniformed police in gear and cover an entire island. Me, I just got dumped by a chick I didn’t even really like that much. I couldn’t see that happening to Steve McGarrett.
    Eventually, I threw my gear in my duffel and headed to the gym for my last workout before the fight. I wasn’t in the mood for Smitty’s urgency and repetitiveness, but I knew it was needed. I was going to be about two hours early, but I could use the time to think about Marquason and work on dragging my jab against the bag. I could take my time getting dressed and do some extra stretching. Of course, that meant spending more time in the locker room at the Y, which was just a bizarre place.
    You had your sixty-year-old handball players who all hated each other and argued every single day for the last forty years. There were the