“I hate this. I hate this. I hate this,” I continued to mumble as I pulled my knife back and forth, sawing through the tough skin of the sunshiney bright lemon. “I hate this. I hate this.”
I yanked the knife down through the middle of the lemon, anger forcing the knife through to the metal table. I felt a stinging pain in my finger, and I pulled my hand back. Lemon juice ran down my hand, mixing with the blood that spilled from my freshly cut finger. The lemon juice gave that extra sting to the cut, and I squeezed my finger to help relieve the pain.
“Well, when life gives you lemons,” my cheerful co-worker smiled. “Make lemonade.” She began to laugh, amazed at how clever she was. I turned to her, my bloody finger in obvious view.
“I hate lemons.”