There is no parry

He got a good hit in. The punch sent me stumbling back a few steps and popped my jaw. Working the muscles of my face snapped it back into place and I deflected another hit before striking back with a punch of my own. No good. He was too quick to block, I didn't have enough speed to connect.
I tried maneuvering to his weak side, using quick small steps to keep from sacrificing agility. He was able to keep up with me, each of my blows being blocked or deflected by his arm. He was about as tall as I was, though more strongly built. And fast for someone of his body type. We were fighting in shadow, the dim bulbs overhead casting faint columns of light that we weaved in and out of as we fought.
He was a boxer, that much felt obvious from his stance and his style of fighting. I'm not limiting myself to one particular style, but each punch or kick I throw doesn't get through. He lands another blow and I fall to one knee.
There is no parry. Only parry-riposte.
A lesson from my old fencing coach came to mind, and I rose to my feet with those words at heart. Stepping forward, I jab quickly with my left, having it blocked again. This time, I followed up right away with my right, my fist landing square on his jaw. I try again, feinting with the right this time and he moves to block, allowing me an opening for my left. I connect.
He picks up the pace, trying to prevent me from hitting him, and I move faster as well. Soon he's flailing, and I'm hitting him with every other punch I throw. I started to feel a sense of elation at that. I was winning.
I let my guard down. He was able to take a step back and landed his fist right into my gut, knocking the wind out of me. I doubled over, screwing my eyes shut as I tried to get a breath in. And as the air wheezed back into my lungs, I opened my eyes to see a bus pulling up in front of me. I was outside, it was a bright day with the sun shining overhead and the light traffic of the mid-afternoon on the street before me.
I climbed aboard the bus, passing by the driver without paying the fare, and took a seat a few places down from the front. I leaned back into the seat, gazing out the window at a passing scenery. I didn't recognize any of it, but the shops themselves were discernible. There was an Italian place that looked good enough to take a date, with a florist shop conveniently close by. A Mexican restaurant was a few doors down from there followed by some apartments. And on we went down the street.
I felt some hands settle onto my shoulders. Soft hands with strong but nimble fingers. They gently probed the muscles there and slowly started to work out the tension I had leftover from the fight. I looked up to see a pair of warm brown eyes gazing serenely down at me. She had a faint smile on her lips, and her light brown hair was pulled back. And as I leaned further back, hanging my head over the edge of the seat to look at her, I could see that she was wearing a knitted shrug over a white dress with a floral print. Quite a lovely sight.
She was still working on my shoulders and I reached a hand up to brush it along her face and through her hair. Her smile brightened a shade, and she leaned over as if to kiss my forehead, stopping an inch above it. She made a comment about a the beating I took. I shrugged and asked if she knew a good place to get a cup of coffee. She said she did. And right before she could say anything more, I felt myself get pulled away as I woke up to the sun reflecting off the walls in my bedroom.