There are no other cars on the road when I leave the ring after my impromptu interview with the tramp from The Morning Cup, so I take my car for a spin through some more deserted areas of San Diego where I know the cops rarely show. I love making her drag and hearing the sound of her wheels spinning out uncontrollably. I guess I’m just a big adrenaline junkie at the end of the day. I roll down the windows, and I can smell the burnt rubber as I make a sharp turn and let the car drift almost uncontrollably. I keep her on the road, though.

I’ve always been a fan of danger. That’s probably why I became a boxer. I love the rush of just throwing yourself out there –living on the edge. I go speeding down a hill, bringing my vehicle to top speed. My gut does a flip, but I live for that kind of shit. This is the life. Really, it is. I feel like I’m untouchable. Like I can do anything. If I can still K.O. a guy after he knocked me in my ears and got me below the belt, I feel like I can do just about anything. I mean, I just fucked a random woman who clearly hated me in some other guy’s office. And I got a girl at home who’s probably making me one of her killer post-match meals. I grin, also thinking of my regular side chick that I keep around for an occasional booty call. A part of me wonders when it’s all going to end. I mean, I can’t keep screwing around forever if I want things to get serious with Brandi… I shake the thought away. Do I even want things to get serious with Brandi? I’ve never really thought that way before.

The strange thought that entered my mind concerning my girlfriend distracts me just as I am turning a sharp corner, and my car comes up on two wheels. I feel a slight panic rush through me, but I manage to land the car upright. My heart is racing a million beats a minute. After that close call, I decide to call it a night and head home before Brandi starts to worry.

I pull up to my gated drive; the gate registers my vehicles and opens up for me, and I pull up the long driveway. There is this giant ass fountain out front that I’ve never really cared for, but it was there when I bought the home. I smile as I climb out of my car; coming home to this mansion-like home is still taking some getting used to. It’s really unnecessarily large for just me, but Brandi is here a lot, and who knows –we might fill it up with the mini me’s one day. Again I shake the thought away. I’m not ready to settle down, I think…

Brandi is there to greet me at the door. She has this big smile as she ushers me into the kitchen, and I can smell lasagna. I’m pretty sure she didn’t do a homemade lasagna; the only things she knows how to cook are non-fat, non-gluten, non-dairy… all the kind of crap ballet dancers try to convince themselves tastes good. I don’t really care, though. I love lasagna –boxed lasagna or not. She’s poured wine and tossed a Greek salad. I grin, wondering if I’m going to get lucky for the second time tonight.

We sit down together, and she does the whole post-match let me check over your cuts, bumps, and bruises thing she always does. She looks at me with these pleading eyes as we dive into our salads, and I realize that this is not an I’m-horny kind of dinner she’s prepared. I should have known. She did the whole five-course meal with bread, wine, salad, entree, and what looks like a cheesecake dessert so I would have to sit and listen to her through it all. Here it comes, the same shit she is always spewing. “I really wish you would look into doing something else,” she says and looks at me with these pleading eyes.

I frown. “Brandi, I was a boxer when you met me.”

She fiddles with her fork, her salad bowl just about empty. “You almost got beat tonight,” she says.

“Almost? Please, that punk kid got lucky with a few good punches early on. It had me off my game for a while, but I bounced back,” I say with more confidence than I probably deserve.

“Look at your face!” she snaps, and I realize I’ve left her stewing by herself for too long. She’s had time to think about this.

“It will heal. It’s just bruises, baby,” I say. “I’m fine, really.”

“This is not fine, Jonathan! This is not what fine looks like,” she is really livid this time.

“Damn it, Brandi; you always do this!” I slam my fists down on the table. She does not flinch; if anything, she just looks more pissed than concerned now. I take a calming breath. I smile at her. “Brandi, I love boxing. You can’t ask me to be something I’m not.”

“It’s just so dangerous, Jonathan. I hate watching you hurt yourself,” she says. “If you loved me-”

I cut her off before she dares to give me some sort of ultimatum –one that I admit would not work out well in her favor. “I want you to stop dancing,” I say.

She does not look amused. “That’s my career, Jonathan. And that’s not the same. I’m not hurting myself like you.”

“Oh?” I stand up, go over to where the lasagna has been waiting for us and fix us both a plate. I cut a giant ass slice for her, slam it down in front of her, and then bash a fork into it to where the fork is standing straight up before returning to my seat. I then just stare at her, letting the silence speak volumes as she ignores the plate of fatty pasta. “You gonna eat?” I snap after a long winded silence.

“Of course, I’m going to eat,” she snaps and takes a little nibble.

I slam my hands down on the table again. “Fuck, Brandi, eat for real! Eat something other than salad without dressing! You scare the shit out of me with your fucking bullshit! Eat, damn it! You think I don’t ever hear you throwing up in the bathroom? Fuck you, Brandi! It’s the same. It’s the fucking same! Let’s just wait and see who kills themselves first over their passion, and let’s just spend the rest of our lives yelling at each other about it!”

“You know I don’t do that anymore!” she snaps. When we had first met, she had pretty much been bulimic, and I feel like a jackass for bringing it up. It really embarrasses the hell out of her. It was before she had really established herself as a dancer. Now that she had made a name for herself, carrying a tiny bit of weight around her hips was slightly less of a big deal. She was still the skinniest woman I knew, but I know damn well she’s not bulimic or anorexic anymore. She looks really pissed off; she ditches her wine glass for the bottle and grabs her plate before ditching me in the kitchen.

I roll my eyes and decide to give her time to cool off before going after her. I finish my dinner. I eye the cheesecake for a minute, but I decide against it. I go looking or her, but it isn’t hard to find her. She’s in the den in front of the fireplace. She’s downed half the bottle of wine, and her plate is empty. Damn, I think. I had cut her half of the pan of lasagna. I go and sit down with her on the floor, taking the wine away and pushing the empty plate to the side. I put an arm around her and offer her a sincere apology. “I know you’re just worried,” I say, “I shouldn’t react like that.”

She suddenly speaks, and her voice is shaky as she sobs, “That lasagna was really good.”

I laugh at her; I can’t help it. I kiss her cheek and give her a tight squeeze. “You know, there’s still cheesecake in there,” I say.

She does this laughing-crying bit and then says, “I’m going to eat half that fucking cheesecake.”

That’s my girl.