The day after the storm, the sun was bright, the skies blue, the air fresh and clean. I spent the morning writing a poem about squirrels. Needing a break, I drove over to my step-niece Sandy’s house. I’d promised to water her plants. As I was walking up to the door, I saw a flicker of something through the garage window. I went over and peered in. It was Sandy. She was pounding the heavy bag that her ex-husband and I had strung up last fall a month before he lit out. She was really hammering it. Even from outside, I could hear the dull thud of impact and the bright jangle of chains. I watched her for a while. She was wearing only ivory-colored shorts and a matching scarf. Sweat streamed down her body. Her sunny hair flew with each punch. Her bare breasts swung. She scowled and grunted and attacked the big bag with a vengeance.

I nudged open the side door and stepped into the garage. So intent was she on knocking the bag into the next county, she didn’t notice me. Grunt, thump, jink—the sounds of Sandy, bag, chains. Grunt, thump, jink. Grunt, thump, jink.

“Hey there,” I called out. “Keep that up you’ll knock the stuffings out of that poor thing.”

Startled, she stopped. “Oh! Oh, Uncle Jake. You surprised me.”

Her arms fell slack to her sides. She was breathing hard. It took her a moment to remember she wasn’t wearing a top. “Oh shoot,” she said, making a feeble attempt to cover her breasts with her hands. “Oh shoot, I’m sorry.” And then she burst into tears.

I went to her and put my arms around her and she sobbed against my chest. I caressed her sweaty back as she blubbered. A minute or so later she’d quieted, and I asked her what was wrong.

“Everything,” she said. “It’s that hurricane, that awful hurricane.”

“I know,” I said. “Terrible.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “You don’t know. My audition. Tomorrow. I had reservations, and tickets, and, and, and ... And now ... And now...”.”

“I know. I know.”

“No. You don’t understand.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “These things happen. They’ll probably resched—”

“They won’t,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No, because I hate myself. All that misery and devastation and people who lost everything, and all I can think about is myself. My fucking audition. I hate myself.”

“You shouldn’t feel that way,” I said.

She sniffled, wiped her nose. “I should,” she said. “I tried not to think about what a shit I am. I thought I’d work off steam. Take a long bike ride. And there, look, the tire’s flat. Just like that. It was fine two days ago. I must have run over something. And I don’t know where the pump is. And I was so mad I just hit the punching bag. And I hit it and hit it and hit it. And some stupid buttons popped off my shirt, and I ripped it off, and I tried to rip off my scarf but it got knotted, and I tugged and tugged, and then I just needed to hit something. Hit it and hit it and hit it.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “You were really knocking the stuffings out of that bag. But you’re going to hurt your hand.”

“I did.” She looked abjectly at her hand. Sniffled again. “I don’t care. I deserve it.”

I took her hand in mine, brought it to my lips, and kissed it.

“Oh, Uncle Jake, you’re so nice. You’re always so sweet and gallant. Unlike me. I’m just a, just a...” She started blubbering again.

I scooped her up. “Now stop that,” I told her. “You’re a beautiful young woman. All you need is...”

Her arms went around my neck. In a strained, sniffling, little girl voice, she said, “I do, Uncle Jake. I need a good hard fuck.”