Roxy

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

You were incredibly beautiful, pretty, but cold and brash. Your squabbles by the elevator became legendary. Everyone kept telling Roxy to give up, even your brother shook his head, but she didn't care. She hovered around you, angry that you were only burying your head in your sad novels and not noticing how you were hurting her.

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

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

You walked up to the ring and gave her an icy look: "What's all this for, Roxy? Do you think if you get your brains blown out, I'll be interested in you?"

She exhaled heavily, smearing blood across her 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 little brat... Just tell me I'm not boring.