Allison Whittenberg
I Could Hit You
They sat across from each other at a corner table in the chain fast casual restaurant. It
was a Tuesday night, so there was little pressure, little stakes. The air smelled of fried onions. In
this place, she couldn’t imagine anything meaningful would happen.
“So what do you do for fun?”
“Fun?” she asked.
“Yeah, fun. Exercise.”
She thought. “I guess, I walk.”
He shook his head. “That’s not exercise.”
“Okay, then I don’t do anything. What do you do?”
“I box.”
He looked like his profile picture, not comfort, not safety. Furrowed and craven. That fact
was more honest than flattering. In print or in the flesh, his features were hard and etched.
Everything about him gritted with toughness. He wore a dark tee shirt and black jeans. He, even,
held his glass tightly, like, at any moment, it was a weapon he could use.
And yet, she liked him. He liked her back.
He asked her out. She agreed to the date.
All cards were on the table. No one was duped; however, somewhere inside her chest,
the fear curled up.
All of this swirled in her mind, ringing like the sound of a punch she would
never feel.
She tried to smile and make small talk. “You box. What’s that like?”
He told her how since he split with his ex four months ago he spent his evenings hitting
things.
“Hitting things?”
“Yep.”
“What do you do when you’re not hitting things?”
He considered her question then answered. “Thinking about it.”
She studied him, her gaze intense in that quiet way people have when they are thinking of
things they don’t quite know how to say.
A few more drinks, a few more questions. What was the use?
She finished her coffee in one slow sip. Let it scald the roof of her mouth.
That feeling, it stayed longer than anything else.
His fingers drummed against the table, the rhythm of his nervousness. His hands scarred,
calloused. Were they capable of tenderness?
Her slight fingers tapped lightly on her coffee cup, the faintest echo of his own restless
drumming.
“People? Do you ever think about hitting someone?”
“In two months, I’ll start sparring.”
“So you don’t hit people, yet?” the words hanging in the air between them.
“No, not yet.”
Her stare steady and unflinching. Her voice soft but unyielding, “It’s nice to have
something to look forward to.”