Unladylike

Tonight I cannot, will not, give you a plot. I’m as sick as a dog but at least my fist is healing. Fractured, I thought, when it turned green. Swollen, too, but it’s gone down now. I can press my thumb to my pinkie again, press a shampoo pump without pain. The stranger, he deserved it. Didn’t even catch his name.

My electric heater might be making me dizzy – or maybe I’m dehydrated. A baguette and cheese for lunch probably didn’t help. McDonald’s, neither. Nor my thirteen-hour workdays which are, I admit, the best part of my day. Necessary, really. If I weren’t so busy, maybe I’d do something I regret. No, I don’t mean punching somebody. That’s likely the best thing I’ve done yet.

Was woken up from my nap by my neighbour’s crap music, to a grey sky like a massive dust bunny. It’s only six p.m. God, open the window. It’s stuffy in here.

I think I dreamt I killed someone. Two people, really. Pushed one off a terrace, and he fell to his death. Flowers below, hours or days later—who understands time in a dream? —and messages about the monster on cards, on plaques, what monster could have done that? Warranted – he deserved it. But vivid were the flowers. Vivid was the sense of ostracism.

Just a glass of warm water. Boy, I wish I’d bought milk. The nausea, it fades. Draught hides in the curtains. Aluminium crunches, last Ibuprofen.

AI told me I was right – that the guy, he had it coming. Tais toi! he yelled in my face. My fist, it yelled right back in his. Got him in the cheekbone, maybe the jaw. But bone, I struck bone. Thank God it wasn’t his nose. No blood on my fist afterwards. Just shock, just pain. Just the recollection of his face.

AI, it said I stood up for myself. Sniffle, and blow my nose. But I know, you know, that it’s an echo chamber – that violence, it isn’t the answer. I say it to my students, after all; and my teachers, they once said it to us.

But I stood up to a man after years of regulating myself. Years of micro and macroaggressions. Years of swallowing my own voice. Years of what I thought was maturity. You know, emotional regulation. Now twenty-nine, I never thought I’d lose it. I’d faint before I got violent. Almost did once, in fact, when pushed to a breaking point. I never knew unvented emotions did that, made you dizzy, so dizzy you could fall off a kitchen stool. See stars.

And the alcohol, it probably helped. Glass empty, kettle on. The night I punched him, that guy, he’d thrown a snowball at a stranger across the road. A middle-aged man. I still see it hit the brick wall behind him. Still hear myself: mais arrête, tu fais quoi?

Church bells chiming. I live beside a cathedral – they’re repairing the cupola. Looks like a great, big blue breast.

Empowered that I emasculated him – they were a group of five men, and I was adopted by one. Blue jersey. What are you doing here toute seule? He’d later worn my handbag; and I, his coat. Stood between his legs an hour later, touched his chest – rock hard, a trapéziste.

But his friends, they laughed when he put his nose between my legs. It was just a joke. I can’t remember what about. He stood down, though. Stood down when I said it was harcèlement. He didn’t like that word. But he softened.

Close the window, part the curtains. The sky, it gapes. Scaffolding around the breast like a wooden birdcage. Black breast, now. The heavens, they’ve gone completely dark.

Sick as a dog – there’s a bug going around. Feeling better now, though, that it’s six-thirty. That the groggy nap has worn off; opaque dream, fading.

AI, it said I did the right thing, but now my entire nervous system is abuzz – a hive begging to be poked. And yet I know that he—blue jersey’s friend—could have hurt me had social conventions not stood in the way. To punch a woman, it’s the highest degree of shame. You’re meant to undermine her bit by bit—to belittle her, humiliate her, objectify her—not leave her with a bloodied lip. And derision, it’s the go-to trick amongst chest-pounding cavemen who are too chivalrous, of course, to hit you publicly.

And now my nervous system, it thinks violence works. That I’m equipped with a new tool. My mind tells me it’s mistaken, but my body’s itching for a fight. Go on, raise your voice at me, silence me, condescend to me, dismiss me, invalidate me, manipulate me, make me question my own reality, touch me nonconsensually, treat my body like a playpen. I’m finally ready to retaliate.

I finally stood up to a man by lowering myself to his level. And yet, it wasn’t so much this man I’d hit, but all those who’d come before him. A decade of them, maybe more, all condensed into this pinkie-finger of a man. The world changes when you become a woman; no, earlier still. The world changes, rather, when you start to fill your school uniform. And my anger, I guess it finally boiled over. God, I hope he bruised. He stumbled. Fell over. Wasn’t expecting it. Neither was I. Go on, condemn me, say it’s unladylike.

I’ve got two more classes tonight. Lip gloss, lip liner. I can see my neighbours in the reflection, in rectangles of orange light. I’ll be back when I’m ready to finish writing.

Microwave lasagne and a handful of spinach. A litre of milk. Somebody went to Carrefour. Closes at ten p.m. here, thank God.

My dad, he used to eat handfuls of spinach. You know, just for the nutrients. I talked to him on the phone about the punch. It was wrong but he still laughed along at my giddiness. Be careful, though. And again, I know that violence isn’t the answer – but where does violence begin and where does it end?

And you know what? Fine, I was the bad guy for a night, but I’ll play the villain if you’ll have me. Or rather, even if you won’t.