Sharp Thoughts
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 was gone?"
"You're husband called.He said the dinner is at six."
"I guess I'll be leaving early today."
"Oh well, tomorrow, Maggie Peterson, tomorrow."

First published: August 2000
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