You know how it works. You pay for something. I pay for something. Exchange, harmony, the person who paid first is happy to be at your mercy; the person who pays second is happy to reciprocate. This is normal. But when I’m trying to leave five dollars for cab-fare and I am standing at the foot of the door putting my hand in my pocket and you’re kicking me? You’re kicking me out of the cab when I’m already out of the cab. You’re kicking me. That’s it. You’re kicking the back of my leg making it give. I take the five dollar bill, swinging my hand backwards, looking desperately for your pocket. You choke me? I don’t know. I’ve had it. I spin around bringing up my knee to your stomach. You double over, my left hand firmly placed on your forehead—thrusting you into the car—I’ve crumbled the five dollar bill, throwing it through the window. (What’s wrong with us?) And I think we might have taken things too far.