Anger

I want to hit someone right now.

“I’m so wound up,” she says, “I’m so angry,” she says, “I’m so pissed off—I just want to hit someone right now,” she says.
We are sitting at the bar counter in an Italian restaurant, eating pizza slices and drinking beer.
I ask, “Who do you want to hit?”
“Anyone.”
I lean away from her.
“Let’s hope it’s not you,” she says. She shows me that grin to let me know she is joking.
You know: ha-ha, hardy-ho-he.
Wwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I think.
“If it would make you feel better,” I say, “you can hit me.”
I am drunk; drunk as an elephant’s trunk.
She goes, “Is that what you want?”
I’m like, “Nah.”
“Is that what you like?” she says. “I bet you would like that,” she says. “I’m not into getting off on violence, no matter what you think, big boy,” she goes.
I’m like, “Only trying to be helpful.”
She turns, fast, and goes and hits me in the mouth. The impact makes a loud, funny sound.
I taste blood.
“Owww,” she goes, holding her hand close to her chest, “that hurt. Your teeth,” she says.
I touch the blood on my lips.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay.”
“You said,” she says.
“Yeah,” I’m like, “do you feel better now?”
She thinks about that. “You know,” she goes, “I do.”
We go back to eating pizza slices and drinking beer. In my beer, there is a swirling puddle of blood. It gets thicker, and thicker, until the color takes over the yellowish color of the beer and starts to looks black.
Ha-ha, I’m like.
Hardy-ho-he, goes me.

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