She was magnificent in anger, her eyes lit up with passionate fervor, her face bright with emotion. She would pace restlessly, her long legs taking ground eating steps, her hips in unashamed womanly sway, her torso tall and proud, her neck arched in arrogant challenge, her breasts heaving with outrage. Even her hair seemed electrified, crackling with energy and zest. He would look at her for hours, fascinated by how she would throw herself completely into anything she did. It was perhaps when he truly loved her the most, in that queenly attitude, contemptuous of any hindrance, intolerant of any weakness. He would imagine being subservient to her, doing her bidding, menial distasteful, titillating tasks she might set for him, and would lose him self in a daydream as she ranted.

It was almost a pity when she calmed out. She wasn’t as exciting then, just one of many ernest hardworking moms. He would bear it till he could resist it no more, till he needed to see her alive again, angry again. It was easy enough to set her off, she was so committed to her ideas that it took a couple careless words or tiny sabotages and she would stop, aghast at the damage. She would look at him bewildered at his negligence and he would add fuel by dismissing her concern. Sometimes it took a little more effort, but he knew how to get her good and angry. And then he would sit back and watch her show.

Sometimes she would cry. Those days were pointless. He didn’t need to see her broken down. His only interest was in her fury. So he would prod her till she reached that state.

He did it only because he loved her. People always commiserated with him for being so patient. He would encourage it because the idea of being a helpless guy at her mercy was exactly his fantasy. He just had to be a little careful that he didn’t push her too far. That was always dangerous.

©alka