The man she called Satan (though not to his face) had made her the wrong tea again, but that was okay, because she was going to kill him.
She was almost disappointed in herself. The inevitability of the killing was such that it felt more like a looming deadline, something she just had to get to, then past. She wanted to smirk at ‘deadline’ as it flashed past, but thoughts of how dull inevitability made the whole affair dulled even her usual weakness for weak puns.
He crossed his legs in front of her, adjusting his trouser-seam on his knee. He interlaced his fingers. His nails were a little too long. Somehow, that was part of it.
He placed a thin sheaf of bulldog-clipped papers onto the desk, next to the tea. Everything was already written, she thought, looking at them. Everything in there always was, and this was always going to be. The bitterness, she realised, as she forced herself to drink the tea, wasn’t limited to the beverage; the true bitterness was that by killing him, she’d be making him the tragic hero, and she the villain.
It always was his narrative, though.
He cleared his throat. Somehow, that was part of it. ‘Paradise Industries thanks you for your service, Lucy. But we’re concerned about some of the things you’ve been saying. We’ve got to let you go. We’re hoping this can be quick and clean.’
It would be, she thought. So quick, so clean. She forced herself to look into his eyes. Of course they were blue. Placid, benevolent, omniscient. His smile, salesman-white, had something different about it. Something at the corners of it. Something, she realised now, that was a little like hers.
She looked down at the tea.
Oh, God.
Oh. God.