A mug of hot coffee, splashed on the man’s face. A calmly said “F-you, you crazy-ass moron” during the breakfast rush at the diner. A smile, the warm spread of satisfaction that radiates from her belly. The looks of utter shock on all the patrons faces as they stare and watch as she coolly leaves the room. Silence after the bomb, after the destruction. It’s not as if he doesn’t deserve it. It’s not like she’s the crazy one for fantasizing, right? Of course she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t. But she doesn’t feel bad for thinking of all the possible ways of slapping him across the face, literally and metaphorically speaking. She can’t decide who she hates more: him or herself. Him: for being a natural jerk and flaunting it proudly or being too stupid to realize it. It’s the former, she thinks. Herself: for having those thoughts of causing someone harm and relishing in it. Going over each meticulous detail. She’s snapped out of her day-dreaming by yet another idiot man comment. Idiot man. You’re an idiot man. She thinks about standing up and skipping around the table and saying “Idiot man” in a sing-song British accent sort of way. Instead she swallows her imagined insults with tepid tap water. She grips the handle of the coffee pot just a little bit tighter as she pours steaming coffee into his mug, trying to control the anger as she feels the urge, that sweet, sweet and impossibly dire urge to explode.


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