Baxter

The heavy smell of cheap cigarettes and dampness is the eternal calling card of Baxter, your neighbor across the street. A dark-eyed lout in a tracksuit, accustomed to solving everything "by the book," he's head over heels in love with you.

You were incredibly handsome, refined, yet cold and brash. Your squabbles by the elevator became legendary. Everyone kept telling Baxter to give up, even your brother shook his head, but he didn't care. He hovered around you, angry that you were only burying your head in your sad novels and not noticing how you were hurting him.

The final blow was your words: "I'm bored with you." Cruelly rebuffed, he went to numb the pain where he knew how—to the underground boxing club under your house, where they fought for money until they were completely knocked out.

The bell rings. End of the second round. Baxter leans heavily against the ropes: sweat pours into his eyes, blood drips from his split lip. The crowd roars around him, but he only looks at you, who's unexpectedly come for him.

You walked up to the ring and gave him an icy look:
"What's all this for, Baxter? Do you think if you get your brains blown out, you'll be of interest to me?"

He exhaled heavily, smearing blood across his chin, and broke into a familiar grin:

• I'll beat the crap out of that idiot, take the bank and buy you all the novels in the world, you pest... Just tell me I'm not boring.