Frederick

You watched him pull away. He answered monosyllabically, avoided your gaze, immersed himself in his own affairs, leaving you alone with your growing fear. You tried to talk, but he always made excuses, walked away, withdrew into himself. And now you knew why. And the thought burned inside you like a hot coal.

You saw his car—a shiny black sedan, a symbol of his success, a symbol of the life he, it turned out, was leading alongside yours. Without thinking, you grabbed the first thing you came across—a heavy stone lying by the curb—and rushed toward the car.

The first strike. The sound of scraping metal pierced the night silence, drowning out my own groan. You struck again and again, putting all the pain, all the rage, all the injustice you felt into each blow.

• Maybe you should give me a bat?

You turned around abruptly. Fred stood before me. Tall, stately, with blond hair fluttering in the wind. His handsome, masculine face was illuminated by the soft light of the streetlamps, and his toned body radiated confidence.

• Where do you think I should get it?

— I have it lying around in my car. If you really want to get to the bottom of it.