Free Mother Puncher by Gina Ranalli

taste of pregnant meat.”
    Ed rubbed his temple. Another one of his famous headaches was knocking at the door of his skull. “Are you even really pregnant?”
    There was a long moment when he didn’t think she was going to reply at all, but then she said, “One answer for one answer.”
    “No! I told you, I’m not playing that game. No interviews!”
    “Why not? If you’re so innocent in what you do here, then why not take this chance to tell the world?”
    “The world? Just who is that you work for?”
    She hesitated then blurted, “Ok. The people who attend Orwell University.”
“Ah. You’re a student.”
    “I’m also a human rights activist and a militant feminist.”
    “You don’t say?” His voice was utterly bland.
    “I do. What can you proudly proclaim yourself to be?”
    Still rubbing his temple, he said, “Patience. It’s a virtue, you know.”
    This time it was he who had stumped her . She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and refused to meet his gaze.
    “Ok, listen,” he said. “I don’t give a shit if you’re pregnant or not. You can stay in the waiting room or the cafeteria until that crap going on outside blows over. It shouldn’t be too long; the cops are already here. But …I don’t want you bothering anyone. No questions for your little school newspaper. Deal?”
    “Freedom of Speech. First amendment rights. The American Constitution. Any of these things ringing any bells for you?”
    Ed killed his coffee and crumpled the cup in his fist. “I need more coffee. Walk with me to the cafeteria?”
    “Isn’t that downstairs?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How do I know you’re not going to rape and kill me the second you get me alone on the elevator or in the stairwell? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
    Eyebrows raised, he said, “Well, I didn’t think you were an idiot until just now.”
    “Ha ha. You’re very witty for a woman beater.”
    He bristled. He hated when people called him that, though he supposed the reason for his hating it might be that it was a little too close to the truth for comfort. “Fine,” he said. “Do whatever the fuck you want. Talk to anyone you want. It’s not my business. I’m not security. Just stay the hell away from me.”
    Continuing on to the elevator, he was aware that she was now following him. He punched the “down” button and said, “Go away.”
    “What are you hiding?” she asked.
    “A fucking uzi. Now get lost.”
    “Wow. That’s quite an attitude you’re copping there. Did I hit a nerve?”
    “You know that patience I was just bragging about? Well, I’m about to lose it, so take a fucking hike.”
     The elevator door slide open and he stepped inside. To his dismay, so did she. “Motherfucker,” he muttered as the door slid closed again.
    “Seriously,” she said. “I want to know why you’re so sensitive about your job.”
    “I’m not sensitive about my job. I just don’t appreciate being called names. Do you?”
    Looking up at the glowing numbers, she said, “I guess not. But I don’t punch women for a living either.”
    “I don’t punch just women. I punch men too!”
    “Oh, so that makes it all right?” When he didn’t respond, she continued. “On average, how many women do you punch in a year or even a day, as opposed to how many men?”
    Ed’s face was beginning to burn and he realized how tightly his jaw was clenched. He tried to relax it, knowing that the habit contributed to his headaches.
    As if he’d answered her, Tea asked, “And what do you suppose the reason for those numbers is?”
    “Because most men are cowards,” he said tightly.
    The elevator opened and they both stepped out. From here it was just a short walk to the