"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," he said.
Jacky shook off the protective gloves. His hands were ruddier than his Irish complexion; his fingers were fat and swollen.
"Sorry about that," I said. "I had a bad night."
"I'd hate to get on your bad side."
"Doesn't seem to worry my ex-husband."
"Then I say he's not right in the head. You punch like a hammer." He shook his head in wonder. I often caused this reaction from the old boxer, who hadn't yet figured me out. "Harder than anyone I've ever trained, man or woman."
"Yeah, well, we've all got our talents," I said. "Yours, for example, is having red hair."
"That's not a talent."
"Close enough."
He shook his head and held up his red hands which, if I looked hard enough at them, I could probably see throbbing.
"I need to soak these in ice," he said. "But if I soak these in ice, the women here will think I'm a pussycat."
I leaned over and kissed him on his sweating forehead. The blush that emanated from him was instant, spreading from his balding head, down into his neck.
"But you are a pussycat," I said.
"Well, you're a freak of nature, Sam."
Jacky, of course, didn't realize how freaky I was. In fact, I could count on one hand the number of people who knew how freaky I was.