Petite Confessions by Vicki Lesage (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📕

“We’re doing a joint Christmas party and going away party for Brigitte,” my office’s busybody informed me. “So don’t forget to bring something special!”

Are potato chips and hummus special enough? Because that’s what you’re getting, lady! I was pregnant with Baby #2 and perpetually exhausted from chasing my toddler around, so I was in no mood to make something fancy.

Being in the “I eat everything I see” stage of my pregnancy (that stage lasts about nine months), I showed up early to the party.

My coworkers have this annoying habit of not letting anyone nibble until it’s all prepared. I have this annoying habit of not caring and eating anyway. Sorry, but a potluck for 40 people takes way too long to set up. You think I can resist dipping potato chips into hummus? Show me the person who can. SHOW ME.

My friend Fanny popped in with homemade pizza squares and asked me to heat them up while she finished something for work. No problem! If by “heat them up” she meant “eat them up.” (See what I did there?)

A nanosecond after the microwave dinged, I shoved a pizza slice in my mouth and carried the rest over to the couch, where I parked my ever-growing butt and dug in.

“Attention, il y a un doigt dedans!” My co-worker Camille’s warning—“Watch out, there’s a finger in there!”—made no sense. I shrugged off her comment and continued stuffing my face.

What had she meant “there’s a finger in there”? Was it a French expression? I often misunderstood those. Or maybe it’s like if you only want a little whiskey you say “just a finger.” So maybe she meant there weren’t that many pizza slices? As in, there wouldn’t be enough for me? Oh, maybe she meant not to eat them all because there weren’t that many and other people might want to eat them. I guess that was it. Still, a roundabout way to say it.

And also, way too late, honey. I’d already made it more than halfway through the Tupperware container before I’d worked out what I thought she meant.

Colleagues trickled into the lunchroom as I avoided their gaze. I should have been embarrassed about how much pizza I’d hogged but I was more afraid they would take it away from me.

“Where’s my pizza?” Fanny asked.

Busted.

“Over here, Fanny!” I said, licking my fingers after polishing off the last slice. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

“Ha, no problem. Glad they were so tasty! So, did you find my finger in there?”

“What’s this everyone’s saying about a finger? There wasn’t actually a finger in there, was there?” I looked down at the empty container and then my pregnant belly. Was a severed digit floating around in there?

Then Fanny stuck out a bandaged finger. Oh my God. I felt the bile rise in my throat.

“I cut it last night making the pizzas. A huge piece came off, actually. Don’t worry,” she quickly added, noting my horrified expression. “It happened while I was chopping a pepper to put on top. I don’t think the finger got in with the pizza slices. At least, I hope not. I brushed all the peppers in the trash without looking.”

“Are you OK? And, more importantly, how could you not look?”

I would be way too curious to see what a no-longer-connected bit of my finger looked like to just brush it in the trash without a backward glance.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

“Can I see your finger?” I was concerned for my friend but I also had to see how much of her finger was missing. It couldn’t be too bad if she hadn’t gone to the hospital.

“Sure,” she said, pulling the bandage off.

The amount missing was just enough to make me lose my appetite. I tried not to show it, for fear of alerting her to the fact that she now only had 9 and 7/8ths fingers.

“That doesn’t look too bad,” I said. “I’m sure it will heal in no time.”

Yeah right! There was like a quarter of an inch missing! Which meant a quarter of an inch of finger was possibly cart-wheeling around my tummy.

On the bright side, at least there’s a lot of protein in it.