Reading this gave me a slight feeling of safety, a slight feeling of apprehension, a feeling of wanting to be the girl at the counter, a feeling that I want to be shown, while I have a look of distrust, yet offering the trust anyway, because I do need to know. Need to know how and that someone cares enough, enough to show me, even as I glare at them with some kind of empty warning. Need to know that someone sees, something. I wonder, would the girl at the counter feel the way I do, that someone saw more than she knowingly offered?
“You hit like a girl.”
I wanted to tell her that
when she came up to the register
with her arm in a cast
because she broke some of her fingers
punching a bouncer at a city bar.
I want to watch the indignation
rise on her face like a rose
as she goes on the defensive
from my perceived insult.
I want to listen to her
read me the riot act
about a bullshit
and sexist comment.
I want to see that look on her face
as I take off my apron,
step around the counter,
and tell her to throw a punch at me.
I want to knock her on her ass
when she throws a full-body punch at me,
and I control her fall
to keep her injured arm safe.
I want to pick her back up
and teach her how to throw a punch.
I want to show her
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