When I was younger, I never understood why women slapped men across the face after they did something despicable. Sure, throwing a martini in someone’s face looked like fun, but what was the point? At the end of the day, the man is still someone who hurt you…and you’re just the girl who threw a tantrum. But as I sat with my back against the hallway, looking at our apartment door, listening to Will satisfy a woman who wasn’t me on our couch, I suddenly understood those scorned women.
The brunette stumbled out of our apartment an hour later – her nose coated in white stardust, giggling uncontrollably at my humiliation. “Excuse me.” she laughed, as she brushed my shoulder when I went to go inside.
I threw my apron onto the antique table we had found in the Village and waited. He came over to me – an apology in his eyes but not in his heart and wrapped his arms around my waist.
I could feel the tears running down my chest as he kissed my neck. I wanted to hear the music swell as we prepare to kiss – I wanted the camera to zoom in on us making our way to the bedroom knowing that if we could just get close enough, everything would be all right.
My hands moved from behind my back to his shoulders and I pushed him.. hard. He stumbled backward and I felt my fingers form a fist and before I knew it he was on the floor.
In that moment I knew why women felt to compelled to use violence to solve their problems – their goal is not to hurt those who have hurt them…it’s to feel. You see, I know what I had seen – I knew what I walked in on. But I needed more than to know…I needed to feel it. I needed to know this was real.