There was a moment, standing there, when the temptation was very strong. I don’t know what the issue would have been, though I like to think, whomever Nike crowned, I’d have bloodied the fellow’s nose. Maybe I was just being a coward, but the thought of having to go to jail over that jackanape displeased me. That was, I think, what tipped the scale; so I took the insult. I don’t feel all too happy about it, though.
Anyway, I’m regretting the decision more and more. The image, the possibility, of seeing his broken nose—what I would give for another chance to pop him one!—floats before my eyes like the gleaming grail. His nose, I think, really wants to be popped. Be the best thing for him.
And yet, I fear I know, in the moment, when I had my chance, I let the insult slide. At the time, it just didn’t seem worth it, but that missed opportunity haunts me now. Funny, I suppose, had it been the other way, I’d even now be bemoaning my short temper. Or not. Who knows what would have been?
Tale Told 