I sulk my way through the rest of the afternoon, busying my wounded ego by restocking the mince and offal troughs. The one good thing about working with meat is the fact that you can punch the shit out if it when you’re pissed off and nobody will ever know, it’s not as if it can tell anyone; and maybe that’s why I’ve stuck at this job longer than when I was childminding or at the funeral home. If anything I’m probably improving our sales by tenderising the loins and if that’s the case then it’s no wonder I have so many customers. I’m like the Goddess of meat you know, you could even go so far as to say I’m a celebrity, because whenever I walk around town customers always recognise me and say hi. I also bet they tell people in their idle chit-chat about how good my meat tastes and how it’s far superior to any other half-arsed supermarket in town. All because of me.
Ben’s finished cleaning down his cheese counter ready for closing and from the corner of my eye I can see him idling, looking around and smiling coolly over at me. No, you don’t deserve my affection after you blew me off for your bloody rally-driving-forklift fucking girlfriend at lunch Ben, so I frown back in response and he looks on confused. And then it hits me, I know I’ll never be a scratch on perfect Jen, but that’s exactly what I’ve got going for me! I bet her hand soap is in the shape of baby dolphins and she still watches re-runs of Friends. But not me, I can be dark and dangerous and mysterious, I can entice him with my carnal guile. She may be Jennifer Aniston but I am most definitely Angelina Jolie.
Already I can feel enchantment oozing from my pores as I provocatively run my tongue across my bottom lip and pick up a bloodied cleaver from the chopping board. Knowing I have his full attention I revel in my own captivation as I tantalisingly brush the blade down across my stomach and along the side of my thigh. See Ben, I too am a master craftsman, I’m a flesh assassin and if I wanted to I could kill any man in this room with a single slice of my superfine blade. And that commands respect. I’m a powerful and dangerous woman.
“Sandra!” shrieks Gaylord, “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing!?” I let out a childlike squeak as the cleaver blade nips effortlessly at the side of my cheek causing a bobble of gloriously red blood to heatedly rise and then slowly trickle down one side of my face. Shit, I lost myself a bit there and now here I am, stood before my manager who silently witnessed my entire knife courtship, and as a result I look like I’m going to a Halloween party; for all of the blood I have dragged deliberately across my bright white fitted uniform, highlighting my stomach, thighs, and two perfect red circles around my tits which betray my wayward actions entirely. And now I could possibly be scarred for life because of the silly cow for making me jump. I should sue her for a workplace injury, compensation for my damaged face and I bet I’d get paid out loads because it’d no doubt be accompanied by emotional-scarring-compensation too. It’s definitely on par with a bogus whiplash claim in a five-mile-an-hour car crash. That’s right Gaylord, I’m phoning Injury Lawyers when I get home on a no-win no-fee basis and I’ll use the money to go to Spain so that I can send you a phallically graphic anonymous postcard from my sun lounger by the pool, sipping cocktails and throwing my head back laughing triumphantly at you as you read it on your fag break from under your oversized umbrella in the cold morning rain thinking who the hell did this. I did!
Held fast by her dumbfounded stare as she awaits my explanation I notice Ben stood with his mouth open wide staring at me and I smile inside because not only have I impressed my cheesemonger, I’m also wearing a gazillion times more burgundy than I was this morning. Gazillion-and-one nil, to me as always.