tough guys
by Myna Chang
What I really want is to kick the shit out of that fucker, Dave, in accounting. Pushy bastard.
I breath in deep. Need to cool off before I do something stupid.
Loosening my tie, I stalk across the office to the storeroom, the one on the other side of the paralegal cubicles. It’s usually empty. Quiet. But today a woman I’ve never seen is there, slicing open boxes of supplies. She’s working fast, wielding the box cutter like a machete. Wild. Shredded cardboard falls to the floor around her feet, her blade flashing bright, dark, bright with each cut.
She turns, catches me staring.
“Are you looking at my tits—”
My eyes snap to her tight, tight sweater.
She grins, a baring of teeth. “Or are you looking at my knife?”
A minute ago, I wanted to knock Dave’s cocky-ass grin off his face. Now this cow is grinning at me. What the hell is her problem? My fists clench, and suddenly she’s striding toward me, brushing her thumb across the handle of that box cutter. She points the tip of the blade straight at me.
“Unbutton your shirt.”
“What? Are you crazy?” I glance at the door. “Do you even work here?”
She shoves my tie aside, taps a button mid-chest with the blade, tap tap tap. Who is this bitch? She’s grinning again, all teeth, and she smells like copper, like old pennies, eyes bloodshot, a bead of spit quivering on her upper lip, making a noise in the back of her throat like she’s purring and shit how is this happening to me, she’s pushing me with the point of that fucking knife, twisting it right left right, digging my button into my skin, and fuck she will not stop grinning, she’s backing me against the wall, my mouth’s going dry, I’m sweating, oh Christ, I can’t breathe, I’m wheezing and my balls are trying to climb into my stomach and I swear to god she could shred glass with those teeth, she doesn’t even need the goddamn knife, my fingers are already on the buttons—
She snorts, and then she’s pressing the edge of the blade into the flesh above my heart, making me flinch—the surprise of it pulsing fire-ice-fire with each squeeze of my pulse god it’s all I can hear, the uneven beat pumping blood too fast, too loud, until her voice penetrates the static in my head, and I realize she’s laughing again:
“Tough guy.”
My breath bursts out and I open my eyes. She’s leaning against a file cabinet now, wiping the box cutter on a crumpled tissue, bright red mixing with other rust-colored splotches. I run my hands over my chest. Just a small gash, a smattering of blood. I’m panting, ragged, shallow. She quirks an eyebrow, then tosses the tissue in the trash and turns her back on me. The box cutter screaks as she slashes open a crate full of file folders.
I hurry to rebutton, fumbling when the shirt sticks to the cut. I’m backing out of the supply room when I run smack into Dave. Of course it’s fucking Dave. His suit jacket gapes, exposing a rust-red stain above the heart. I stop, stare. His grin falls apart—and then his eyes flick to my shirt. I shoulder past him, stifling a wince as the fabric peels away, everything coming unstuck.
Photo of Myna Chang
BIO: Myna Chang hosts Electric Sheep SF and publishes MicroVerse Recommended Reading. Her stories have appeared in more than one hundred venues. Find her at MynaChang.com or on Bluesky @MynaChang.