He remembers pain. Remembers walking home from school with his best friend. Peter punches him in the shoulder. Wants to be punched back. Wants to see who can take the most pain. But he can’t punch back, no matter how hard Peter punches. He remembers the day his father tried to teach Peter and him about boxing. He is standing back, watching his father fasten his friend’s gloves and show Peter how to throw a right cross. He leans over to get a closer look. Watches his father’s fist draw back quickly. Doesn’t see the elbow snapping towards his jaw. He is knocked out for a few seconds. Doesn’t cry at all.
No matter how hard Peter punches, he can’t punch back. The bruises last a week.
There is the sound of singing that counterpoints the pulsing of the mist and a muffled mechanical drumbeat. In the pause between each note, the mist clears.
He sees a woman who looks so much like his first wife. She is not the singer, for she is knitting a child’s jumper and is unaware of the song. He is home from the office and is reading in another room. Later, he sits down to write a poem, which he does every birthday and Valentine’s Day. She goes to bed. Now, she is naked, and he sees himself taking her from behind, though she never let him do that. He comes quickly while she lies there. He gets his briefcase and goes back to work.
The singer appears carrying an easel. She paints rapidly in broad strokes. A portrait in wine and smoke of the two of them taking turns, mouth to groin. He takes her hand. Carries her easel. They disappear, singing.
