Tip of the Tongue
Anish was having a brain fart. What was this thing called? This thing in his hand? Common household item? In every house in the world? Two steel blades, hinged together to cut paper and other stuff? Oh, it was on the tip of his tongue! Anish could remember all of India’s fourteen prime ministers–he ran them through his head in thirty seconds just to prove this memory gap wasn’t across the board–but he couldn’t think of the name of this thing in his hand. He began mimicking its cutting motion with the fingers of his other hand. Come on, toddlers know what this is. It wasn’t a stapler, it wasn’t tape, it was… He was seriously going to have to look this up in the dictionary. Under what? What letter did it start with? Z? No, nothing starts with Z. Something that sounds like Z. S? Anish went through the vowels. “Raj, please pass me the Sa… Hey Raj, pass me the Se… Raj, give me the damn Si…” Scissors! That’s the word! Scissors. Anish felt an immense itch being scratched. He looked at the metal surgical scissors in his hand. Scissors scissors scissors. Anish went back to what he was doing with the scissors, which was cutting the tongue from the girl he killed two days ago. He was hungry, and would fry up her tongue for lunch. What a relief, Anish thought. He seriously thought there might be something wrong with him for a second.
