I follow in silence. I even make it through the first combination without so much as a peep, but I can't help it. I can't help it that I can't help it, because it's like he's gone and picked at a poorly healed scab. How the hell am I supposed to focus when I'm trying not to -- metaphorically, thankfully -- bleed out all over the floor?

"Okay, fine," I say mid-punch, following it up with a second and a third. "I was bothered. Am bothered -- though the past tense was entirely applicable until you got all emotionally healthy and wanted to talk about it, I'll have you know."