When the fighters slow down, moving toward each other as though underwater, gloves laboring to rise before their faces, each punch followed by a clutch when they hold on like exhausted lovers, I think of us in the last months, and of the night you stood in my kitchen, drunk, throwing wild combinations at the air, at something between us that would not go down. I watch the two of them planted in that ring, unable to trust their legs, the bell’s reprieve suspended in some impossible distance, and I remember my voice, cursing our life together until there was nothing either one of us would fight for. These men, you’d say, have heart — they keep on, though neither remembers his strategy or hears the shouts from his corner. And it’s true you had more heart than I did, until that night you gave us up, finally, and dropped crying to your knees on my kitchen floor. The fighters stagger and fall together, flailing against the ropes. They embrace and are separated, but they don’t let go.