I laugh, maybe a little too loudly, and watch as a speck of spit flies through the air and lands delicately on his cheek. My eyes flicker towards the spot and I notice his do too. The moment passes in a blink and we both pretend nothing happened. We both pretend that that minuscule moment of our lives did not occur.
He carries on with his story but I can’t help my eyes from wondering back to that vile splash of saliva. For some reason I find it impossibly infuriating.
Just wipe your cheek, I think, I won’t be insulted if you wipe my dribble off your face!
But he continues on, unabashed. As the seconds draw on, the despicable fleck fades away but my unnerving insanity does not.
“Are you really going to ignore that?” I ask, interrupting whatever story he had moved on to.
He eyes me with exasperation.
“Seriously,” I continue, “why is it that people are so much more worried about hurting someone’s feelings than being comfortable?”
He’s smirking at me now with clear amusement.
“I spit on your face!” I shout suddenly, drawing eyes from the street around us. “I did. I spat on your face. We both witnessed the crime. So why are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
A torrential downpour of torment rains down on me. And then something else rains down on me. I freeze as I feel the slick, disgusting feeling of sputum running down my cheek. I let out a yelp of revulsion and turn towards his grinning face, complete with a sticky string hanging from his lips.
I let a feeble punch fly and catch him in the chest.
“Damn you!” I screech, wiping my cheek.
“That’s why I ignored it,” he says, still smiling, “because I don’t hit women.”
He shrugs like that is the most obvious answer in the world, and then takes my head in his hands and plants a sloppy, wet kiss on my angry lips.
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