The rain holds the cigarette smoke in the room. I try to wave it away with my hands, push it out the open window.

It will not leave. I will not stop smoking and waving my hands. My guests are embarrassed.

They tell me:   
Most women don't shatter the bowls of public toilets by throwing hand weights at them.

They say:
Most women don't crack sternums with ringed punches.

See, I say, the commonality is the cracking. The shattering.

Them:
Most women don't draw maps to help their father out of the garage.

I nod to myself, still smoking. The map was perfectly good. Expertly drawn.

The guests don't know what to say. They take notes, show me.

Welt on her eye socket, unspoken source.

I reach up, rub the socket. It is sore.