Rebecca's Bad Day

The sand was fine grains of sparkling white crystal. The water was apple green and clean, frosted with foam from rippling waves cresting tranquily on the shore. The sun was adrift in a lazy, cloudless sky. The margarita glass was sweating giant beads. Rebecca could almost smell the salt air and taste the tart lime of the cold beverage. She stared at the image on her phone and tried to forget she was in the humid, stifling waiting area of the DMV. Why couldn’t she be in the Bahamas, the Dominican, or Mexico? Hell, I’d even take the Gulf Shores in Alabama, she grumbled to herself.

“Now serving number seventeen.” The voice sounded bored and apathetic.

Rebecca stood, a brief pang of sadness stabbing her as the peaceful moment vanished the second she closed Insta. She checked herself quickly in the mirror though she knew it was pointless. No one ever looked good in their driver’s license mug shot, she rued, before making her way to the counter.

When the sullen woman on the other side of the glass just looked at her – no, more like through her – Rebecca cleared her throat. “I need to renew my license,” she said, passing her documents through the slot.

The woman leafed through them and then looked at Rebecca with all the emotion of a robot. “You got a piece of mail with your current address?”

“No,” Rebecca replied, her heart sinking.

“Well, come back when you do,” the woman said, sliding the documents back to Rebecca.

Rebecca started to protest but the woman had already hit the little buzzer to indicate the next customer was up for her world-class service. Instead, she grabbed her documents like she was slapping away a pesky mosquito and stomped toward the door.

What a waste of time, she thought, staring daggers at her steering wheel. She pulled out of the DMV and caught a glimpse of a friendly green mermaid across the street. Well, at least I can get some coffee, she consoled herself.

“Can I get a grande mocha, no whip,” she said into the drive thru speaker box.

“Sorry,” a voice crackled, “we’re out of mocha syrup.”

“How about hazelnut?”

“Out of that,too.”

“You got coffee?” Rebecca sniped.

“Of course,” came the disembodied voice, sounding completely oblivious to Rebecca’s snide retort.

“Fine. I’ll have a tall.”

Pulling away, the math caught up to her. She’d gotten a tall but paid for a grande. It was only a few cents but in her current state of mind it might as well have been a hundred dollars. “Dammit!” She cursed under her breath. She took a sip. “F-u-u-u-c-k!” She cried immediately as the piping hot liquid burned her lip. Slamming the cup back into the cupholder she wrenched her hand away as the steaming coffee shot up through the little hole in the lid and scalded her hand. “Aaaarrrrggghh!” She screamed.

By the time she got home, Rebecca had already imagined at least fifty different ways to torture the complacent lady at the DMV and visualized herself tearing the drive thru speaker from its moorings and bashing the stupid barista over the head with it. The violence of her imagination was realized in the force with which she grabbed at the handle of the entry door to her building. The nail to her index finger, which she’d just had done yesterday, chipped away. Rebecca wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

Ryan looked up from the television, his eyes suddenly alarmed, as the apartment door blew open and slammed into the doorstop. Rebecca stomped in and practically threw her purse to the ground as she kicked off the flip-flops she was wearing. The mood of the room went from tranquil to tense in the blink of an eye and Ryan could almost feel the rage wafting off his girlfriend in waves like heat from a jet’s engine. He hitched up the elastic waistband to his gray sweatpants as he stood, took a step towards his girlfriend and then froze. Something about the way her eyes were blazing underneath her furrowed brow made him think better of trying to console her with a hug. It would be like trying to cuddle a rabid animal.

Trying a different approach he joked, “Guess your license photo didn’t turn out so well?”

Rebecca did not laugh. Nor did she smile. Her chest was heaving as she clenched and unclenched her fists. She set her smooth jaw and marched the dozen steps over to where her boyfriend was standing. With the last step her stride lengthened and even as she set her left foot down her right leg was already swinging forward.

Instantly, everything seemed to come into focus for Ryan. But it was too late. By the time he processed that she was going to kick him in the balls her foot had already connected and he could feel them like twin lumps in the back of his throat. His knees folded in and he bent at the waist as the air whooshed out of him.

Elation bloomed in Rebecca as all the pent up rage inside her exited her body through the top of her freshly pedicured foot. It would have been a bone against bone collision except for one thing: the padding provided by her boyfriend’s testicles. She was saved a severe pain in her right foot as his balls flattened between the hardness of her foot and his pelvic bone. Much like a water balloon pinched in the middle, she could feel them spread out across the span of her foot except that she knew they had nowhere to go. Instead, his balls simply absorbed the force of her blow, like a cushion, as all the nerve endings spidering inside his testes compressed, screaming in pain to be released.

As her foot recoiled, Ryan felt his testicles spring back, rocketing back from his throat toward the ground only to feel them reach the end of his stretched scrotum and shoot back up. Waves of pain, thick as molasses, coursed through him as his balls tried to settle themselves back into their natural state. He cupped them gingerly and sank to his knees.

The sensation of smashing his balls reminded Rebecca of her softball days. She wasn’t good, truth be told, but every once in a while she would connect with the ball in the perfect spot on the bat and it felt like a knife through butter. No tingles or jolts vibrating in her hands and arms, just the overwhelming feeling of power surging through her muscles and she knew she’d hit the ball good. Unlike softball, though, it was her feet and legs that felt powerful when she kicked a man squarely in his balls. And damn, didn’t that just feel even better?

As he sank before her, she saw a brief look flash across his face. It made her smile to see him express the realization at how stupid he was and that he should have known what she was going to do. How did I get fooled and let this happen yet again? It seemed to say. But then it was gone, replaced by a terrible grimace and she knew the pain had hit home and that his whole world was reduced to a single thought: Oh god, my balls.

When Ryan slumped forward and then pitched on his side, drawing his legs up, groaning, Rebecca’s small grin widened. Every man should experience a moment like this in his life, she thought. To deal with nearly unbearable pain in his balls after a woman has chosen to kick them. Looking down at her crumpled mess of a boyfriend, Rebecca laughed quietly. How many times had she left him rocking at her feet, clutching himself as she stood over him relishing the sublime feeling that came with kicking him in the balls?

She sighed happily and looked out the window. Across the street, a man and woman were strolling down the sidewalk, hand in hand. Rebecca, awash in the excitement of the moment, let an imaginary scene play in her mind. The blissful couple reach the corner and stop for a red light. She casually turns to him and takes his other hand. He smiles at her and looks lovingly into her eyes. She knees him in the balls. He drops at her feet. She crosses her arms, smiles and waits for his strength to return. After several revolutions of the traffic light, it finally does and she helps him to his feet, providing a strong shoulder for him to lean on as thy continue on their way. She walks, light and airy. He limps along.

Alas, the traffic light is in their favor and they disappear from Rebecca’s view. Not wanting to let go of her elatied state, Rebecca’s mind fast forwarded to later in the evening. Maybe they’ll have an agrument. Oh how she hopes they will. Maybe they disagree on takeout. She can see him tower over her, a menacing, threatening, dangerous look in his eye, yelling for pizza when all she wants is Chinese. Rebecca imagines the calm, collected look on the woman’s face as she watches his agitation, like a snarling dog. Then, when his fury is at its peak, the woman simply rocks back and kicks his balls hard, which is what he deserves, and Rebecca can almost hear his petulant snarls morph into agonized howls. She shudders with delight at the sound. Most people get uncomfortable when a man argues with a woman, but to Rebecca it’s a wonderful sight because at any point, the woman can choose to end it like only she can.

As if a light bulb switched on Rebecca’s eyes widened as the thought struck her. Maybe men get uncomfortable watching one of their own argue with the fairer sex because deep down, in their very core, they know what’s coming. Looking down at Ryan, still curled at her feet, sweating with pain, Rebecca realized she couldn’t ask him. He already knows if they argue she will kick him in the balls. She made a mental note to ask some other guys about it sometime.

Stepping over her boyfriend, Rebecca grabbed the remote and sat down. As she flipped through the channels she realized her stomach was growling and for some reason she was craving Chinese.

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