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up.’
    â€˜Looks like somebody’s trying to muscle in on your girl,’ I told Hayes, pointing to the dancers. There was a tall man with long sideburns dancing provocatively with Phoebe. She seemed to be enjoying the flirtation immensely. Hayes frowned. He said, ‘Fuck it. I told her that dress would get us into trouble. Hold this.’ He handed me his glass and disappeared.
    I saw Hayes stepping between Phoebe and the tall man, grabbing her by the arm and moving her away. She looked shocked at his rudeness. The tall man reached out to stop Hayes, who turned on him. They might have been shouting, but I couldn’t make it out over the music. Beat, beat, beat . Their movements caught between the flashes of bright light. Red. Green. Orange. Purple.
    I’m watching the fight and the song playing was The Prodigy, ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.
    It was like watching a series of stills between the strobing lights. Hayes with his elbow cocked and ready for a swing. Red . Swinging, connecting with the man’sjawbone. Green . Man with his head forced to one side, blood looping from between his lips. Orange . Hayes swinging again, a punch to the man’s stomach. Purple. Man doubled over, dripping blood, clutching his stomach.
    Hayes was kicked out and the police were called. The air outside seemed cooler, though it was filled with smoke and awful stenches. The tall man was a German. His nose was broken and jaw shattered. The front of his white shirt was soaked through with blood. I followed Hayes and Phoebe through the crowd, looking for a taxi before the police arrived. I watched as they hurried into the taxi without me, driving away. Hayes seemed calm, Phoebe manic. They were arguing in the back as the taxi disappeared into the traffic.
    I walked to my hotel and collapsed on the bed. Outside, there was a full moon glowing fat and yellow over ugly clouds.
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    â€˜Women,’ Hayes was saying somewhere above me. I pried my eyes open and he was standing there in a neatly pressed suit, no tie. There was sunlight streaming through the windows. ‘They do it to you on purpose. They don’t mind an argument. They like to make you jealous. They will go hours without talking to you, just so you know they’re angry. They flirt in front of you to find out how much you care.’
    I yawned and wondered how he’d gotten into my room, how he’d found me here. It was small and cramped, and he towered over the end of the bed. I reached for my cigarettes, and he offered one of his own.
    â€˜I try to let her have her way. I try to be complacent. I try not to care. It’s the testosterone that fuels jealousy and gets you into fights. It’s like war; your testosterone is upped considerably during confrontation. Your body wants you to win, and it tries to fuel your engines. It drives you toward victory.’
    There was dried blood on the pillow. I had suffered another nosebleed during my sleep, the third in a week.
    â€˜When you lose your fight, you have to back down. You crawl away, you aren’t ready for another confrontation for quite a while.’ Hayes lit his own cigarette, puffing smoke toward the ceiling.
    Groggily, I told him, ‘You won your fight.’
    â€˜He didn’t stand a chance,’ Hayes said. ‘The fighter with the higher level of testosterone is always going to win. It’s inevitable. For the first few days after the injection I’m an animal. But sooner or later depression kicks in, and we have to combat this. I’ll show you, soon.’
    â€˜Okay,’ I said, mostly tired and disinterested.
    â€˜I have to go to work. You look like you need your sleep. Get some rest, you’ll need it,’ he said.
    Then he was gone.
    I lay there for a short while, smoking my cigarette, back aching from the lumpy mattress. After a while I decided that some kind of breakfast might be in order, and I dressed and stumbled downstairs.
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    Phoebe was