The Numbers on Her Wrist

8

It is the night after my taste of the bridge's fire and my run-in with Samuel.

The next fight has been scheduled and placed at a skyscraper that is closed for future construction, chairs and desks cleared out, but there are a few stray tables that line the walls to the tenth floor. As I walk inside, men wearing an assortment of clothing fill the room, smoke hovering above our heads from cigars.

There are no women besides me tonight.

When a large group of female street fighters set up a meeting, not many men attend; they would not risk being called out by their friends as wimps.

I prefer always having a challenge, which means facing men over twice my size usually' plus, the bets are larger here.

The office building's walls have been cleared out, a space over 40 meters by 40 meters, is packed half full, the rest of the space devoted to the actual fights. A tall burly man is in the ring formed by a tightly pressed circle of people, another person of the same size and height facing his opponent with gritted teeth.

In street fighting, there are no gloves, and few wrap their hands; broken knuckles and fractured fingers are a commonplace here.

There's a yell of anger and I watch from my tiptoes as the man who has tanner skin and brighter eyes rushes the other, a fresh cut dripping red. The spectators cheer and whoop, drinks held high and money exchanged for further bets.

If the fight is entertaining, the betting is higher, and for every five dollars placed, the winner takes one dollar. You can place a bet on yourself too, but not many risk it; you never know who will step into the ring.

"Hello, Amelia."

I turn, Samuel smiling brightly at me. I nod to him, returning the smile as he takes a sip from a brown glass bottle. I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest, the satchel bumping at my waist as we walk behind the crowd and to the windows. "You drink?" He looks down and frowns a little, "Why? Wouldn't like me then?"

I turn my back to him and face the city through the glass, hiding the smile that attempts to work its way onto my face. "Who said I liked you?" Why on earth am I acting like this? I think to myself; he's just like any other guy.

"Oh, I think you do. At least as a friend..." Samuel steps closer, his breath on my neck and his chin tilted down towards my shoulder. I glance up and clear my throat, moving away from the window and his side. "You finally going to fight tonight?"

"I fight all the time, Amy!"

"I've never seen you fight, though. And it's Amelia, not Amy."

"What's it take to call you Amy?"

I turn my head to the side, but don't reply, walking to where the tables are lined along the walls and red plastic cups are filled with watered down liquor. I take a seat on the edge of the desk, keeping my eyes on the ring of men. "Who do you think will win?" I smile at his question, pointing as one of the fighters swings his arms a few times, loosening his shoulders. "He will."

"Why?"

I scoff, shrugging and waving a hand absentmindedly, "Does it really need explaining?" Samuel's grin widens further and he shoves his hands into his sweatpants' pockets. "I want to see if you are as good as everyone says you are."

"Everyone? Who's everyone?"

We both turn our heads quickly at the sound of screams and roars erupt, the man I predicted to win standing tall and victorious, the opponent dragged away by friends to nurse his wounds. Samuel smirks and gestures towards him, "You were right. How?"