Off-Cuts

Sarah Whitechapel was currently struggling to imagine life without her ring finger.

The knuckles of her left hand ached as she drew her fingers into her palm for the thousandth time that morning. She’d been told it helped to visualize, but it was difficult to picture nothing where there’d once been something. It was difficult to feel like she wouldn’t be better off trying not to think about it at all.

A finger wasn’t much as far as this kind of thing went – visible, but not vital, akin to an actress having an eye removed for a leading role. That being said, it would be the most she’d ever given up. There’d been a molar for a college internship, and before that, half the length of her hair for a hostess gig at a restaurant of middling quality when she was seventeen. She only regretted the second one. Her hair, grown to the waist and cut to her chin, had been worth more than the pittance of an hourly wage she’d gotten for it.

Staring at her hand wasn’t helping. Thoroughly repulsed, she dropped it onto the faux leather of her seat and turned her attention distinctly outward. With exception of the receptionist, reigning supreme behind her half-moon desk, there was only one other person in the lobby; a woman, caught somewhere in the liminal space of twenty-five to thirty-nine, non-descript black purse at her feet and manilla folder sitting neatly in her lap. Another applicant, Sarah guessed, and immediately, the stranger’s posture seemed straighter, her clothing more suited to the occasion, her expression so effortlessly pleasant, it cut back to aggressive. She must’ve had more experience than Sarah, too. Her hair was tucked tastefully behind the remaining half of her left ear, and there was a harsh indent in her calf where a portion of the flesh had been carved away. That was a good idea, if a bit crass. A pound of meat would probably be more attractive to someone looking for a butcher than a marketing director.

Sarah watched intently as the other applicant looked from her phone to her purse, then from her purse to the receptionist, immediately catching her eye. The two exchanged an easy smile, and panic flared in some deep, base part of her mind. Could she have been friendlier with the receptionist? Was she supposed to be friendly, or would that make her seem too flippant, too careless? In a way, she’d already forfeited. Seeing the interview through would only help to save face.

The other applicant’s attention shifted once again, onto Sarah. Somewhat involuntarily, a plaster smile spread across her lips, her head bobbing awkwardly in greeting, and then the other applicant was moving closer, closer, until she fell into the seat beside Sarah with a shallow exhale. Her possessions were left thoughtlessly on the other side of the room, and for a moment, Sarah was utterly and truly convinced that she hated this woman more than any other living thing on the face of the planet. The feeling passed quickly.

“Blaine,” the woman said, extending a hand. No last name was provided, which made sense. If they ever met again, it would be after one of them had gotten the position and the other knew who’d robbed them of it.

“Sarah.”

The handshake was passable, unsubstantial in terms of pressure, warmth or length. When they broke apart, Blaine let out a dry laugh. “I know I’m not really supposed to ask, but I can’t help it.” She paused, sighing. “What do you have in mind? For the deduction, I mean.”