A short excerpt from a larger piece I’m writing about anger…
Her anger surged through her, as she lay awake observing how it jogged up and down her body. Secretly, she enjoyed the prospect of release – a tittering tingle between pleasure and restraint. It was something like when, at the age of nine, she would relentlessly twirl her hair, smoothly snaking it between knuckles, pleasure at the slight tug of her scalp. She continued, spinning and spinning, thinking and thinking, looking out the car window until a rope of brown spun right off. She remembers the tail in sweaty fingers, her shock, and resolve never to let her twirling go this far.
Similarly, her rage was shocking in its power to demand an affectionate stroking, peaking her senses and causing her to wish it could be torn away from her.
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