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Her Rage
Her hands flew past his ear, missing it by a millimeter. If he dodged any later, his eyeball would be firmly lodged in his brain.
He holds up both his hands, "Whoa! What was that for??"
She whips her foot around, aiming for this head. "You know exactly why," her foot slams against his forearm as he attempts to protect himself, "you," kick, "fucking," kick, "asshole!"
She could feel the welts forming along her shin. She bites her lip and ignores the pain. Her eyes drilled into him. She has never felt this angry before.
She could feel her whole body shaking with rage. She watches him as he rubs his forearm.
Fucking bony arms.
Her breathing starts to calm, and she almost feels sorry for reacting this way when she sees him walk through the door. Slowly, her rage dissipates.
With her fists at her hips, she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She breathes in slow and deep.
He starts to say something, "I..." but her head drops back down, and she looks straight into his eyes, "I thought we were friends." The disappointment in her voice hangs between them. He looks away.
She picks up her bag and walks out the door.
He calls her the next day. No answer. The day after that. No answer.
He sends her countless confused, apologetic, furious, and then apologetic again and even attempts humorous text messages. No answer.
After three days of unanswered calls and texts, his phone vibrates with a message from her.
"This is what you wanted. Silence."
He finally understood what made her angry, but it was too late.
Two weeks later, he sees her car parked outside the dojo late at night. He hasn't been there since the last time they saw each other. He stands outside, hesitant about seeing her, imagining what the confrontation might be like considering the last time they met; she almost took his head off.
He breathed deeply and hoped she would be civil but prepared himself for the worst.
He walks in. She's practicing alone. Sensei must've given her the keys to lock up. He wonders if she had told anyone what had happened between them. One minute, they were laughing and joking like long-lost friends, and the next, whenever his name was mentioned in front of her, she would walk away from the conversation.
"Hey," he says.
She looks at him without expression and continues kicking the punching bag hanging from the ceiling.
"Been a while. How've you been?" he tries again, walking closer to her.
Right roundhouse kick, left roundhouse kick. Thwack, Thwack.
"Look, I understand why you're so mad, and I don't think you can blame me entirely."
Her eyes darted towards him at this, and she could feel her rage boiling again. But still, she doesn't say anything. She puts her fists up higher and kicks the bag even harder.
He could see his words finally struck a nerve. He decides to provoke her some more.
"I think you're being unreasonable," he walks around the punching bag, "I was busy," he circles behind her, "I didn't have time, and texting takes so much effort sometimes..."...
He holds up both his hands, "Whoa! What was that for??"
She whips her foot around, aiming for this head. "You know exactly why," her foot slams against his forearm as he attempts to protect himself, "you," kick, "fucking," kick, "asshole!"
She could feel the welts forming along her shin. She bites her lip and ignores the pain. Her eyes drilled into him. She has never felt this angry before.
She could feel her whole body shaking with rage. She watches him as he rubs his forearm.
Fucking bony arms.
Her breathing starts to calm, and she almost feels sorry for reacting this way when she sees him walk through the door. Slowly, her rage dissipates.
With her fists at her hips, she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. She breathes in slow and deep.
He starts to say something, "I..." but her head drops back down, and she looks straight into his eyes, "I thought we were friends." The disappointment in her voice hangs between them. He looks away.
She picks up her bag and walks out the door.
He calls her the next day. No answer. The day after that. No answer.
He sends her countless confused, apologetic, furious, and then apologetic again and even attempts humorous text messages. No answer.
After three days of unanswered calls and texts, his phone vibrates with a message from her.
"This is what you wanted. Silence."
He finally understood what made her angry, but it was too late.
Two weeks later, he sees her car parked outside the dojo late at night. He hasn't been there since the last time they saw each other. He stands outside, hesitant about seeing her, imagining what the confrontation might be like considering the last time they met; she almost took his head off.
He breathed deeply and hoped she would be civil but prepared himself for the worst.
He walks in. She's practicing alone. Sensei must've given her the keys to lock up. He wonders if she had told anyone what had happened between them. One minute, they were laughing and joking like long-lost friends, and the next, whenever his name was mentioned in front of her, she would walk away from the conversation.
"Hey," he says.
She looks at him without expression and continues kicking the punching bag hanging from the ceiling.
"Been a while. How've you been?" he tries again, walking closer to her.
Right roundhouse kick, left roundhouse kick. Thwack, Thwack.
"Look, I understand why you're so mad, and I don't think you can blame me entirely."
Her eyes darted towards him at this, and she could feel her rage boiling again. But still, she doesn't say anything. She puts her fists up higher and kicks the bag even harder.
He could see his words finally struck a nerve. He decides to provoke her some more.
"I think you're being unreasonable," he walks around the punching bag, "I was busy," he circles behind her, "I didn't have time, and texting takes so much effort sometimes..."...
