“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’ll pay to get it fixed.”
“That is not the point.” They were sitting next to each other on the sofa. She was wearing short gym shorts, and a thin tank top that clung to her chest. The current between their bodies should have been diffused by their argument and their anger. It wasn’t. It was turned up.
“That is not the point,” he repeated. “The point is that you acted recklessly. The point is that you treated me with disrespect. The point is that you were selfish, and didn’t consider my feelings.” His voice was rising in pitch. He’d never seemed to care about the car that much.
“Oh, come on,” she coaxed. “Don’t be mad.” She rested her hand on his knee.
And he grabbed her around the wrist, and pulled her body down across his lap. Without hesitating, without apparently thinking, he smacked her hard on her bottom.
And everything changed, as if a hand had wiped the scene.
And the new scene is alien, and overwhelming. The shock, as her body makes contact with his, and as the current running through the empty space between them suddenly shorts out. The rush of adult sexuality and female power, confusingly blended with the feeling of childishness, and frightened, embarrassed, guilty childishness at that. The memory of all the videos she’s been watching: all the bare bottoms, all the hands and paddles and everything else raining down in righteous fury, the pinkness or redness or worse, the wriggling, the tears, the bare pussies peering out from under the bare bottoms. The vivid consciousness that this is the thing she has been wanting, and has not been able to think about wanting, and it is happening, right now. The drop into helplessness, like she has been dropped into a swimming pool and doesn’t know how to swim. The acute, shamed awareness that this is her uncle, and that whatever this is, it isn’t right.