Today's true story:

I'm placing the finishing touches on my strawberry-rhubarb pie when Dad comes home from work. He's wearing his plaid button-down shirt untucked, but still has the police uniform shoes and pants on. (For some reason I've always loved seeing that outfit; probably because it means he's home for the day; not just a short break.) He sets his bags wearily on the table and stands in "Dad pose"- head cocked to one side, arms hanging loosely, patiently smiling at me while he surveys the unbelievable mess I've made of the kitchen. Suddenly, a wiry, dark haired man enters the dough-cluttered scene and starts dancing toward dad like a prize fighter- fists under his chin, beating the air around his head, gingerly bouncing towards and away from dad. Dad takes an immediate defensive position. Work-day weariness is forgotten. He must defend his daughter from this intruder.
The first punch to connect with flesh sets Dad yowling indignantly. The dark haired man grins gleefully. He smacked dad's wrist right where the watch was and it hurt. Dad calls a fowl and comes to me so I can kiss it. I oblige, and the dark-haired man jeers. The fight is back on.

"So you're wanting this to hurt, huh?"
"Yeah... to hurt you."
"Ohhhh, it'll hurt alright. Take THAT."
"Yeow! Heeey. Take it easy or I'll..."
"You'll WHAT!?"
"I'll do THIS....." (Thud, smack, stifled laughter.)
"Oooh, he's playing tough!? Didn't know you had it in you."
"Yeah, well you're not so bad yourself... for an old man."

Here I indignantly interject from my safe spot behind the kitchen counter, "Hey, watch it! That was a low blow!"

The two dance apart and then together again in some sort of age-old male bonding ritual, throwing punches and meaningless insults, all the while laughing inwardly. Finally Dad catches the man around his neck and draws him forward in what could be a half-nelson, but instead becomes a hug. The fight is over. Nobody won. The men leave their fighting ring and I place my pie in the oven, smiling broadly to myself. "Nate's home."