My heart lay bleeding on the table, and I was pissed. The crimson syrup pooled right out to the edge, spilled over in fingerling rivulets, and made startling little splashes on the white tile below. I skimmed it with the tip of my finger for a taste. Oh it was magnificent — smooth and not cloyingly sweet, a hint of the tang of the blood oranges.
I tugged at the knife and was surprised to feel it tugging back. The knife actually bit into the wood of the tabletop — it must have literally been thrown with some force. Thrown precisely, too. It was a clean slice into the gelatin, and most of the blood seemed to seep out from the bottom. The knife jutted out from the heart violently, obscenely, at a rakish angle.
I gripped it from below the handle and jerked it out. I couldn’t help admiring how perfectly viscous the blood was. Drawing the knife to my temple like Norman Bates, I bellowed, almost screeched, “I want to know which of you fuckers leaked my fucking cake!”
I swear I heard stifled guffaws from some of the cubicles.
“It was for my Acme Halloween presentation, you assholes!”