Back

“Go back where you came from,” whispers the voice, unimaginably near her ear. Back? Was that for the winter shawl, snugged ‘round her like a hijab? Why was the emergency cord so far away? And at 11 a.m., how could their subway car be so deserted?
     “Cunt,” suggests the voice at her back.
     “Anything can be a weapon,” suggests another voice, in her head. Thawing her grip, slipping her Sudoku pen past her middle finger, her ring…curling fingers back.
     Ready, now, to stab.
     Later, her black-belt friend would commend her readiness. But, commend what came next? Not so much.

For what happens next, see Cunt.
Image: K. Bischoping