Anna Christie Fuentes
Have you ever
taken scissors to you skin? I've
sliced the flesh so that only a sliver of crimson
emerged. Skin doesn't make the crisp clean sound
of paper. It's more like a crunch, a cross
between nails dragged along a blackboard and the
chomp of an apple. This was the sound of Maggie
Peterson's voice. If someone had informed me a
year ago that such odious venom could swim
through my veins, I would have given them an
incredulous laugh. I was formerly believed to
have the sweetest disposition of anyone. But now
my loathing had devoured me until I was obsessed
with one thing: the demise of Maggie Peterson.
I formulated the scheme in my head. She always
walked to her office at one forty eight on her
way back from lunch. No one would think to look
for her until morning. I fondled the letter
opener she had given me. 'World's Best
Secretary' working for you.? How
exhilarating it would be to drive that object
into her heart organ, if it were there. But no,
I'd have to make it seem like a misadventure.
Perhaps an entanglement with that faulty paper
shredder. One forty-eight.
"Hello, Teresa.Did I have any messages while I
"You're husband called.He said the dinner is
"I guess I'll be leaving early today."
"Oh well, tomorrow, Maggie Peterson, tomorrow."
First published: August 2000