As I gave the middle finger to the two douchebags walking behind me, a thought occurred to me: I am trapped. On a tiny island. In the middle of the Mediterranean sea. With two assholes. And the only boat that shuttles between the island of Tabarca and the Iberian peninsula wasn't coming back for another six hours.
It had been so instinctive. The motion had originated in my arm, and had never crossed the decision making part of my brain. I had heard the bro-y holaaaa directed at my back, and seeing as that's not how one begins a polite conversation with a stranger, I chose not to reply. In response, the caller laughed with his friend before switching to a high pitched, sing songy ni haoooo. In that instant, automatic mechanisms were triggered and, before I could blink, my middle finger was in the air. As a side dish, I cast over my shoulder a look of bored contempt, a single eyebrow raised in a disappointed teacher look.
I didn't pause to consider the consequences. I didn't count the routes of escape (none). I didn't even properly understand why the interaction annoyed me on such a deep level. All I knew was that I wanted these bros to know I had heard them and disdained their ignorance.
In response to my hand gesture, the pair broke out into a oinking laugh that spoke of power and masculinity and mockery. It is a common form of posturing amongst the douchebag species, and underneath it lies a subtle threat. That they are just joking, but if they weren't, I would be no match for them. I refused to walk faster or to acknowledge them in any way, but later I took note of their location and went in the opposite direction, hoping to avoid them on this self-contained perch in the middle of the water.
Still, I entertained violent fantasies of revenge. I imagined them coming across me as I lay alone in the grass, their animalistic laughs growing louder as I tried to enjoy a moment of reflection. Opening just one eye, I would peer over at the douchebag duo as they veered dangerously close to my personal space. They would continue producing some kind of laughter to assert dominance, and after noticing my open eye, one of them would venture forth a greeting. Ni haoooo. Ni! Hao! Nihaaoooo. The one speaking would lean forward during this performance, while his friend waved his hand and pantomimed hello like an energetic puppet.
I stand up, waiting. Waiting for any excuse. A silent statue of judgement.
That's when the ni hao asshole would take in my body language and laugh even more. He'd shake his head and wipe at his eyes, amused by the strong reaction in this strange, foreign girl. Looking back at his friend, the ni hao asshole would share some expression before turning back to placate the over-reacting girl. He'd raise his hands in mock defense, and then place one hand on my shoulder as if to say, "come on there, sweetie."
And that would be enough. That one hand on my shoulder would be reason enough to beat the absolute crap out of them. I could almost feel my knuckles cracking into those uneven, European teeth, blood running down my hands as I drew back, gathering the kinetic energy needed for another punch, this time to the throat. I would beat them so badly that their shouts would echo out over the water as passersby called for help. I would continue, calmly but insistently creating layers of hurt that would eventually scar over.
In a few years time, these scars would be all that was left of this encounter. When people asked them, they would tell stories of an epic bar fight. But they would remember. To them, and them alone, the scars would forever serve as a reminder: that a woman traveling alone is not to be trifled with.
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