Five or six teenagers, chains and safety pins over their black punk clothes, leaned against the iron church fence. They were looking at a pair of chubby boys about six feet away.

One of the boys was looking at his fists like he never knew his hands made that shape. He looked at the other boy, a bleached and bespectacled kid.

“You want me to hit you?”
“Yeah!”
“In the face?”
“Yeah!”
“Hard?”
“Yeah!”

I walked until the black fence bars angled so I could barely be seen by the band of teens. I peeked through the slats, waiting to see if the boy was going to take a swing. A few other passersby slowed down too.

The boys didn't move.

I walked away.

I bet he chickened out, or socked him softly in the shoulder. But since I didn’t see it happen, I like to imagine one kid’s glasses broken on the sidewalk, maybe some red drops in the cement, and the other boy holding out his hand to help him off the ground. And then they gave up all their flaming worldly possessions to make soap in a dilapidated house in the toxic waste part of town.