Someone yelled, “Come on, Ruttman! Don’t take it. Go after him.”
“Get him, Ruttman!”
“Knock his brains out!”
As the stevedores shouted encouragement to Ruttman, it was like a heavy weight falling on Kerrigan’s chest. Suddenly he realized he was fighting a man he had no right to fight. He was defeating the man and he hated the idea.
Because the adversary was not Ruttman. The true enemy was sitting there at the wheel of the parked car, her golden hair glimmering, her eyes taunting him.
It was as though she were saying, You’re afraid of me.
He could hear the grinding of his teeth as he realized it was true. He had the feeling of facing a high fence, much too high for him to climb. The fists of Ruttman were coming toward him but it wasn’t important, he didn’t care. He scarcely felt the knuckles that bashed his face. It wasn’t a fight any longer, it was just a mess, a loused-up comedy without any laughs.
Something crashed against his mouth. He tasted blood, but he wasn’t conscious of the taste, or the grinding pain.
He was thinking, You can’t handle her, you know you can’t.
A big fist hit him on the side of the head, sent him falling back. He saw Ruttman moving in for the follow-up, saw Ruttman’s arms coming in like pistons. But it didn’t matter. He didn’t even bother to lift his hands.