Brendan looked at the insides of June’s boombox. "You’ve just got a simple disconnection here, Bug," he said into the mass of colored wire. He took out his metal Leatherman multi-tool and twisted it so that it formed a pair of pliers. "Hold the light to the inside so I can see what I’m doing."

June clicked the flashlight on and shone the beam into the black area. She attempted to hold it steady, but Brendan worked in a shaking light, one that recast the shadows of the wires every few seconds. Still, it was more helpful than the dim light in the apartment, and he searched for the proper connection. He plunged in the tips of the pliers, curling an exposed wire into place.

"It should be fine now," he said, twisting the Leatherman into a flathead screwdriver.

June hugged him from behind as he screwed the back of the boombox on again, kissing his cheek quickly. "Thanks, hon."

He threw himself onto the couch, wiping his sweaty hands on its brown cushions. Rolling over, he put the Leatherman back into its case on the back of his belt.

"Deb, did you borrow my Sublime CD?"

His sister was small, even accounting for her age and her brother’s enormity. "You said I could."

"When did you return it?" he asked as if he couldn’t answer the question himself; he knew all the answers. His sister was on her guard.

"I re – I returned it two days ago," she said carefully. "I gave it to you after school."

"Did you take care of the CD?"

"I kept it in the case."

"Bullshit, Deb, bullshit. Bullshit. What’s that big fucking scratch on it?"

This was when her eyes began to water, her legs curling slowly in front of her. "It wasn’t scratched when –"

"I trust you with these things, Deb, and you go and fuck them up like you fuck everything up."

"I didn’t –"

And then he slapped her, hard across the face. The slap threw her head to the side and downward, a slap delivered with all the strength of a punch Brendan might have thrown at a punching bag in the gym he loved so much, or as the knockout blow in the ring. Her body collided with the white arm of the couch, her face bruised and half crimson. A red line opened up along the bottom of her cheek, left by the sharp-edged gold circlet around Brendan’s ring finger.

June held Brendan’s right hand, playing with his finger with a troubled look on her face. "Do you have to go tonight?"

"I can’t break my schedule, Bug. I thought you had that figured out." He grasped her hand briefly, then released it, opting instead to run a hand through her dark hair. "I’ll try to make it short. I’ll come back without a shower."

She wrinkled her nose. "You’re always so sweaty after the gym. You’d better just come back in your gym clothes and shower here."

"Done." Brendan kissed her quickly and picked up his gym bag. "I’ll be back before ten."

"You’d better." June waved and moved into the bathroom.

Earlier that afternoon, Brendan had picked up a paper and skimmed the headlines. One in particular had caught his eye, the wording of which he couldn’t remember. It was something about a man who raped a woman on his way home from being fired, then went home and beat his wife to death, committing suicide just afterward.

He mentioned this to the man beside him on the exercise bikes at the gym. "He must have been cocked," he said derisively.

"Not necessarily," the man next to him said. "Some people just snap. They let too much build up and then there’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back."

"Maybe the guy’s job was just really important to him," Brendan replied in a monotone. Looking up through his sweat, he spat on the carpeted floor. "Do you box?"

The man next to him looked warily at the muscles in Brendan’s legs, watched the tremors in his considerable biceps as he hung on tight to the handlebars. He noted the streak of red peeking from the black of Brendan’s gym bag, the laces of boxing gloves. "No," he said after a pause.

Brendan shrugged and turned back to looking silently forward. Soon he would be done with the bicycle. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered with it anymore; why build leg muscle? Maybe he’d do some back exercises, or more bench pressing, continuing to push his records. June was excited to work his abilities into any conversation: "Did you know Brendan can bench-press two seventy?"

He wondered why she was so eager to have him home tonight; sure, he had a few ideas, but Bug was rather unpredictable. She’d as soon make him come home early for a repeat of an Oprah special as anything else. But other thoughts ran through his mind, and suddenly, Brendan was very eager to get home.

Just a few more exercises, he told himself. Self-discipline. I can handle it.

In his junior year of high school, Brendan was in the Drama Club. Usually he was called upon for choreographed parts that required that a person be lifted or caught. Occasionally, he helped haul in the larger parts of sets on his own.

They were playing with an improvisation exercise. The game was simple: two people would begin a scene, then a third would call "Freeze!" and take the place of one. The scene would then change.

When the actors were arranged the way he wanted, Brendan yelled. He pulled away one of them, putting his hands on his friend Allison’s shoulders. They were bony under his hands, and he knew her to be light.

He began to shake her. "Why did you take my money?" he yelled, his idea for a conflict scene. Good fun for all; he would shake her around, put her in an interesting position, and let someone else call "Freeze!"

Allison shook in waves, like a blanket his mother had beaten once to get the dust out of it. Brendan shoved her harder every second; her arms were pinned to her sides by fear or by his hands. Her neck snapped forward and back as the other actors watched, unsure of what to do, unsure of whether Brendan was hurting her or not. "Why did you take my money?" he yelled again.

With a burst of energy that wasn’t quite meant to end the scene, he shoved Allison to the black floor of the stage. When he bent down to roll her over, meaning to frisk her violently, she screamed, grabbing her right shoulder.

Immediately Brendan pulled back, lifting his hands in the air. The other actors swarmed around her, ignoring him.

Brendan’s hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. He’d kept his promise to June, stopping his workout after working on the bench, skipping the punching bag and ring entirely, not showering. He’d shaved a good hour and a half from his typical time.

The gas gauge neared Empty. Looking around, he spotted a Texaco station not far ahead; he pulled into the parking lot behind a pickup truck. The man in the blue truck was short, well into his fifties, it seemed. Brendan sighed, tapping his hands on the sticky wheel.

The man was taking a long time, longer than Brendan could mentally justify. He took his time, locking the car, unlocking it to get out his wallet, getting a coffee from the convenience mart inside the building, wiping his windshield with the paper towels provided by the pump, staring at the pump and the prices for regular and premium and super premium as if it made a difference in his life. Really, does it fucking matter? Brendan asked himself, setting his jaw. People like this hold the world back.

But he swallowed his annoyance, forcing it down into his stomach where he cooled it with a swig of mineral water. When the man had finally pumped his gas, he dawdled, moving toward Brendan’s car. What now? Brendan rolled down his window. "Yes?"

"Just wanted to apologize for taking so long up there," the man said gruffly. He adjusted his paint-spattered sleeves and nudged his old baseball cap. "Buggy night like this, the windshield gets messed up pretty fast."

"I guess so," Brendan replied, pushing down the sharpness that threatened to peak in his voice.

The man bid him good night and got into his car, driving off slowly. Letting out a long breath, Brendan drove up to the pump. This is idiotic, and it’s over, he told himself firmly, but still, his stomach churned with irritation.

When Brendan arrived back at the apartment, his girlfriend was asleep on the couch. Though tired, he was annoyed that he’d gone home early to find her asleep. Still, it was hard to stay angry at the serene sleeping June, his Bug.

He picked up a half-empty bag of popcorn that was partly crumpled and thrown across the coffee table, taking a handful of greasy kernels before he threw the bag away. He ruffled June’s hair coarsely but affectionately, leaving a streak of butter as punishment. Why did she have to sleep now? He considered waking her up, but doing so would leave her only wanting to sleep again, a state that discouraged any kind of interaction.

Brendan stepped into the bedroom, disregarding his promise to take a shower. Stripping to his boxers, he climbed into the bed and stretched under the covers. He closed his eyes, breathing in short breaths but ignoring the tension they built in his chest and stomach. Sleep would help.

The apartment the next night was empty until nine-thirty. The coffee table was meticulously cleaned; June’s boombox was put away, back in the bedroom. Brendan treaded heavily and quickly into the apartment, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. He grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator and opened it, downing almost half before stopping to wipe his mouth and take a breath. Switching on the one floor lamp, he sat on the couch, leaning forward.

Ten minutes passed before a key rattled and the door opened again. June walked in, her eyes wide, exasperation lining her mouth and forehead. "What was that?"

"I’d ask you the same question," Brendan answered, finishing the last sip of his second Coke. He got up and threw the can across the room, missing the garbage. They stood facing each other directly.

She half laughed, half coughed in angry confusion. "I don’t even know what you’re mad about."

"The guy at the next table bought you a drink! I think I deserve some fucking explanation."

"I gave you the fucking explanation. I don’t know the guy. I didn’t talk to the guy. Why does it matter?"

"I’ll tell you the fucking matter. If you didn’t wear those fucking prostitute shirts out of the apartment --"

"You like these shirts--"

"I like them in the apartment, not when you’re flaunting your tits to the world like some whore!"

"I’m not a whore!"

Brendan’s chest expanded with breath and tightened immediately as she spoke, nearly doubling him over, his chest sinking hard into his stomach.

"Did you hear me? I’m not a fucking –"

Pulling in his next breath, he grabbed June’s arm.