Dominick steps forward and stands in front of me. He's smiling. "Hey !" His arms are outstretched, as if I'm invited to stand up and embrace him.
"Look, I'm fine. You got a lucky punch, that's all." My voice sounds like I have a bad cold. The blood's probably clotting.
"Nothing lucky about it," Gilbert says quietly, some anger in his tone, his hand protectively on my shoulder. "It was a punch."
"You hit me," Dominick says, his voice halting. "I hit you -- you hit me, you hit hard! You know? I hit -- I don't " His voice trails off again. He's obviously been prodded into apologizing, but what he's doing is trying to tell me the bloody nose was my own fault. Well, it was. I am, after all, a boxer, in Gleason's. I did drag my completely non-threatening boyfriend who told all assembled, including Dominick, that I could take care of myself. I wanted to learn how to be a killer, and now there's a cluster of men here who want Dominick to apologize to me for taking undue advantage. I came in here to be treated equally, and to kick ass, and suddenly I feel a little too much like his poor victim sitting here covered in blood.