Shades of Purple

His eye had turned a pretty shade of purple, the stitches hiding in his eyebrow barely hidden by a large pair of aviator sunglasses. I sipped my coffee, turned back to the weekend paper and tried to bury the guilt I felt for his injuries.

The guy had run his hand across my back and bum as I walked through the crowded pub. FLB was following close behind me. I’m not sure if he noticed the guys hands or me trying to shake them. FLB turned to the guy “what do you think your doing?”. The guy back pedaled, stuttered something like a half-meant apology. FLB started a reply, words barely born into the space between them before he was thrown sideways. He regained his footing and slammed his fist into the guys face. Arms, legs tangled. Screaming, swearing, shouting. I grabed for something, someone. Pulled into the chaos I smashed my leg on the stool. Finally security got there and pulled everyone apart. Thats when I noticed his eye. Already swollen. Like a golf ball trying to emerge from his eyebrow. Red-wetness pouring down his face. I could’t decide if I wanted to cry or scream. I did neither.

I looked back up from the paper. “It’s not your fault” FLB says.

I love that he will never back down when he thinks someone has done something wrong, but I hate seeing him hurt. He says that if more people refused to put up with pigs that there would be far less of them. I think he’s right, but I wonder sometimes if it’s really worth it.