punishment

“If you see me smoke another cigarette,” Greg said, “I want you to punch me in the face. Okay, Andy?”
“Alright,” I said, knowing if it came right down to it, I probably wouldn’t punch him in the face for smoking a silly cigarette. But I might let him think I was going to, right up till the end.
Greg lived with his brother, Steve, in an apartment on a little country road. I stopped by most evenings on my home from my job at the radio station. There was a small gravel parking lot in front of the four-plex. Greg and Steve lived in the first unit on the left. I whipped my car into the lot and then locked up my brakes as I did every time, to slide a couple feet into place. That used to irritate Greg, but I told him I did it to let him know it was me. I went inside without knocking. I heard voices in the kitchen. Greg was in there with others.
I turned the corner and found Greg with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand. He knew it was on. He dropped everything and slipped past me headed for the front door. He looked back at the frenzy in my eyes. He pulled open the door and poised ready to sneak out. I raised my foot and reached for the door to tap it shut. I tapped it forward and it sandwiched his head in the jam. Not hard, but hard enough to make him fall and bleed steadily from his left eyebrow.
We both agreed he’d earned the cigarette, so I watched him smoke it with a wadded tee shirt on his eye. He told me about his day. And then I felt bad for what I had done.