by Angela C. Orlando
I'm going to make fruit salad.
I take out two grapefruit, three oranges and a bunch of grapes.
I grab a long, shiny knife and pick up a plump grapefruit.
I place the grapefruit on the cutting board and begin to slice.
The tangy citrus scent reaches my nostrils, while a scream of
pain escapes my lips.
I drop the knife in horror.
My thumb feels like it's on fire.
I wildly jerk my hand around, trying to shake away the sting.
Crimson drops of blood splatter on the cabinets and countertop.
I realize this is not a little cut.
I fumble for a paper towel and yell for help.
An hour later, the crisis is over.
My thumb is bandaged.
The kitchen has been cleaned.
On the counter, sits one bloody grapefruit, as if testament to my
There will be no fruit salad tonight.