He sat in front of her, droning on about cost cutting and capacity needs. About supporting the delivery 100%, but without compromising on other the other facets of the project. His eyes everywhere but on her. His attention clearly elsewhere. His resentment at having to spend this time explaining things to her palpable in the stale office air.
Her fingers clenched to white knuckled stillness in her lap. She listened in complete silence, wondering how much longer it would take him to realised she’d made no response. Not even the usual “ja” or “hmm” or “uh ha” that would punctuate a dialogue. Hers was the mute engagement of an audience, not an active participant. The deep indigo rage in her belly grew. Her face a serene, indifferent mask to the man before her. She concentrated on her breath. Keeping her hands still in her lap. Keeping her spine straight and her eyes clear of the humiliating tears of frustration that always seemed to come at the worst possible moments.
And then she couldn’t stand his pompous, snake oil salesman bluster any more and in the half real time of warp speed and slow motion, she watched her own hand whip out, grasp the silver letter opener by its enamelled hilt and thrust it deep into his left eye.
“To hell with the consequences you fucking arsehole”, she smiled, as she wiped the blade on his blue striped shirt, “I’m going to lunch.”