Today's writing

She tried to get the bottom of her fury. She thought about what a therapist had once told her – one of the many therapists she’d had and then fired for whatever reason – you have to move through things, not just past them. Past them isn’t going to get you anywhere. Then she went into the kitchen and threw a spoon at the wall.

Why a spoon? It wasn’t going to break. It wouldn’t do that much damage. Besides, it might be kind of fun bending it back into place.

She hadn’t counted on it hitting Gary full in the face instead.

What the fuck?

Shit. I thought I had it locked.

What the hell were you doing? Playing target practice with cutlery?

She was never sure later what brought her to this: she hit him. Not hard and not directly, but enough of a blow that they both realized there was no easy recovery. It was one of those closed-fist jobs, delivered straight to his upper arm in the hopes that it would convey more message than pain. From the look on his face, she’d achieved both.

She expected him to grab her fist, bend her hand back, use those Israeli fighting skills he’d learned as a kid in Krav Maga. Instead he put his hand on her forehead, which turned out to be more strategic. She leaned against his palm, flailed her arms in a failed attempt to swat him. I look like a fucking idiot she thought, but couldn’t stop.