When your back is turned I like to throw up my fuck you fingers. I keep throwing them up until a sense of euphoria trickles through me. It makes me feel powerful.
Most times I do it when I’m not in the same room as you. But on the odd occasion I like to do it when you’re near. The adrenaline kicks through me, will you turn around when I’m halfway through and catch me at it?
How I wish that one day you would. That you’d turn around and see that my fuck you fingers are pointed high in the air for you.
I’d watch the expression on your face as you slowly register that these two pistols, that I so casually throw up are aimed at you; that you are their intended victim.
How I will cling to the sensation, shortly before I feel the hot sting of your slap across my face and the verbal attack that I know will accompany it.
I want to read your eyes and see whether a flash of the pain that you inflict on me passes through you, embracing the hurt that I’ve caused.
But instead I hide behind my door, pumping my fuck you fingers at you, plotting and hoping that one day you will catch me.