If I could spit on you I would. There is no misinterpreting purposeful spit in the face. It can only mean anger. Anger of the vilest kind, deep and everlasting. An everlasting gobstopper of pissed off spit. Or maybe not so everlasting. I’d feel terrible about it eventually. Immediately. Before it happens and so it will never happen. My guilt over potential hurt prevents the hurt from happening. And so you will never know how angry I am at you. You’ll see this tight smile and not the clenched teeth it hides. I can’t spit on you so I won’t.