The way Violet is right now, hair all tussled up, face all flustered, she looks prettier than a picture. She doesn’t even spare me a glance as she’s putting her clothes back on.

The way I am now, as I look myself in the mirror, I’m glad she doesn’t.

“Need to use the bathroom” she says and leaves me alone, rushing to cover herself. I don’t even try to sneak a peek at her. I know that, by the time we go out of that door and into the street, it’ll be as if all this never happened, like the time before and the time before that.

The TV’s droning on in the background, showing footage of two trainers clashing in the middle of a stadium, shouting orders at their pokemon soldiers like tiny little generals, all grit and no muscle. A Charizard spits fire on the hard earth of the stadium, fusing sand into glass and I still can’t get my mind off Violet.

The secret motto of Team Rocket is: the world’s your oyster, as long as you don’t fuck your partner. There’s no rule against it of course; no one’s going to throw the book at you or slip you a severance pay check or make you go through some bullshit workplace etiquette seminar.

What they’re going to do, is they’re going to nod, smile, pat you on the back and then send a guy with a Machamp over to break your legs. Then, assuming that no one starts suspecting you squealed to the cops while you were in the hospital, recovering from your grievous injury (where you have to swear it was because of something that happened on your day job, the one you keep to keep the cops and the IRS off your back) they welcome you back and you get reassigned to some gruff sociopath who hates himself worse than he hates you and try to stay on his good side for the rest of your life.

I should know, I’ve been assigned a couple of kids exactly like that. None of them made it through the month.

On the TV screen, the Charizard’s taken flight over the stadium, tangled with a Dragonair that the other trainer popped from out of his pokeball. The sound’s turned all the way down, but I can hear the beasts roaring inside my head as loud and clear as I can hear Violet running the shower in the next room.

Putting on my shirt, I miss the split-second when the Charizard sinks its teeth into the Dragonair’s neck. Thehe cameras zoom in into the sight, as the dragons whip their tails in the air, looking to capture the precious moment when a friendly bout becomes a bloodsport. Something rains down on the audience and I know it tastes like old nickels. In the next room, Violet cusses and I can tell she’s just broken a nail.

When she gets out, she’s pouting at the sight of her broken nail like a teenage girl. On the TV screen, the dragons smash down into the ground, all blood and torn scales. Reluctantly, I switch off the TV.

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“I broke a nail” Violet says and I’m smiling before I can stop myself.

We’re heading for the elevator, when I realize how much I just want to reach over and take a whiff from her hair. As the doors slide open, I reach out my hand and try to hold hers, but she’s already stepped inside. I don’t dare look at her in the mirror, because I know exactly the kind of look that she’s giving me.

“Got any plans?” she asks me and I want to tell her: I’m going to go home, check up on my mother then go meet the boss and give him that pokeball we got off that trainer kid. Then I’m gonna get some shut-eye, drive to Pewter town and go there to scare the living shit out of Mister Fuji, that old fuck. Hey, wanna come with me? We can go visit the Science Museum or something afterwards.

I just shake my head no instead.

“Okay” she says and my heart sinks all the way down to my stomach.

She doesn’t say a word all the way back to her place. When she opens the door, I turn and flash a smile, in the vain hope that she might smile back; she’s already gotten out of the car by then.

“See you Monday?” she says and I’m about to say something halfway intelligent, but she’s already shut the door and walks away. I don’t stick around to watch her go into her house. I just gun it for the interstate, shaking all over, gritting my teeth.

Could be I’m just mad at myself. Could be I’m mad at Violet. But right now, I feel like I really need to ruin somebody’s life just so I can maybe feel a little better about myself. Going down the interstate, I pass my exit and head for Lavender Town instead. In my pocket, my cellphone rings and I know exactly who’s calling me. Against my better judgment, I don’t pick up.

I’m doing 60, thinking: you know exactly how guys like you end up when they fuck with Team Rocket regulations, don’t you? I’m thinking in my dad’s voice, knowing that this is going to get me madder. In my pocket, my cellphone’s rumbling and growling like an attention-starved kitten.

The speedometer’s reading 80, as my dad in my head (the life-support hardware still hooked up his nostrils and into his mouth) says: go back to Giovanni, you dumb piece of shit. Go back to him, hand him the pokeball, go see your mom. You owe her that much, at least.

Inside my pocket, the cellphone stops ringing and I know I’ve just made a couple of very important people very angry. The thought of those old fucks going mad makes me feel better, but not by much.

I barely make the Lavender Town turn on 70, the tires screeching like mating Spearows, when the dad in my head (the cardiograph in backseat beeping a steady beeeep) says: try not to get yourself killed, for her sake. I might not have been much, but at least I had the decency to do that.

“Fuck you old man” I mumble, doing 60 as I enter Lavender Boulevard, the Pokemon Tower looming over me like a tombstone fit for titans. My dad, his life-support equipment, his voice (my voice) are dispelled. I’m all alone now, me and my spite, clenching my fingers round the steering wheel so hard it makes my knuckles ache.

I’m so mad at myself, at Mr. Fuji, at Violet, at the whole wide fucking world that I don’t notice the Snorlax in the middle of the road until I’ve crashed into it.