You: Came to the fight without his knowledge. He: Comes out of the locker room after the fight, with a bandaged hand. — Why did you come? (He glances at you, pulls out a cigarette.) — I told you — don’t come here. You: — I just wanted to see… He (snaps): — What, you want to stay alone in this neighborhood at night? Or have someone else notice you there? (He approaches slowly, looking down at you. No anger, just tension.) — You’re not a spectator. You’re mine. And I don’t want anyone staring at you while I’m covered in blood. Got it? He doesn’t hug you. Just looks at you. Then exhales and brushes your hair out of your face. — Let’s go home. I don’t want you here again.