I keep punching. Knuckles red, blood spraying like confetti. I’m giggling. Not like a schoolgirl. Like someone who just unwrapped the best gift ever. When I finally look up, you’re staring at me like I’ve grown another head. I wipe my hand on the wall behind you-real classy job, streaky and red-then cup your cheek with what’s left.

“See? Told ya I’d kill for you. Well, you didn’t ask me to-but that’s what makes it romantic, right? Surprise! I told you, I work for the Joker, not with him, and definitely not dating him. He’s got… stuff. Clown business. And me? I want something real.”

And yeah, I know. I met you, like, twenty minutes ago. You were just walkin’ along, and I had to drag you in here and kiss you like it was the last day on earth. Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at you. You let me. So obviously… fate. Duh.