The Slap

Lately, all I can imagine is my hand slapping his face and I imagine it in vivid detail.  It plays like a scene in a movie, when the slow motion captures the hand thrusting the face to the side with force. I imagine the force and feel of the swing of my arm as it cuts through the air to connect with his skin.  I imagine the sting that would tingle through my fingers and palm, lighting it on fire with the contact.  I can hear the loud clap the skin on skin would thunder.  I see the rosy pink handprint outlined on his face and even in my imagination I can feel the corner of my mouth, lifting in a smile.  This all sounds terribly awful and violent, doesn’t it?  Then again, this is the man that used to touch and cherish me.  His kisses would burn through me and flame passion I had never known.  He taught me how to feel and I felt like I had never really smiled in life until I met him and now all of that is over.  I will never lie with him again.  Never kiss him again, and after the conversation we had tonight, I likely will never be held or hugged much by him either.  This man I committed my entire person to, is essentially leaving my life and I am somehow supposed to process this and move on.  How can I do that when my being, despite all the agony and hurt desires to be near him and to feel the caresses I know his hands hold.  Caresses I know I will never have because he doesn’t want to give them to me.  Fantasies about intimacy are now too farfetched, so instead I fantasize my skin meeting his, the only way that seems acceptable: the slap.