Sharps
by Ian Richardson
As she often did at this point in the morning Sarah gave a
small mental nod of thanks to Errol Flynn.
She unloaded the fridge and placed on the kitchen counter
the essentials for her snacks. Sarah held tight to the
organisation of her morning. She always prepared
enough supplies to get her through until five when
the final musical farewell of Windows released her
to go to the wine bar.
In the order she would need them, the essential
components were set out in two rows. On the top,
a Ziploc bag and a lunch box and below that
whole-wheat bread, faux butter, ham (cheese on
alternate days), a Mars bar, four oranges and the
syringe.
The butter went on the bread, the ham on the butter, the
sandwich in the bag. The bag went into half of the
lunch box and the chocolate in the other. All
secure in their place. All reassuringly right with the
world. Then Sarah slid open the kitchen drawer
and took out a flat bottle, unscrewed the top and
drew up a full measure of liquid into the syringe.
It had been a stroke of pure luck that she'd read a bio-
graphy of Errol Flynn just as she needed it. She
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