Two Fictions
Kim Chinquee


She watched the bevel of the needle move into her hand. She was taking her own blood. It was her control. The patient's name was Mr. Winters. She'd been drawing his blood daily, waking him early in the morning, breaking up his sleep. He'd say, "Hello, my little angel." Her father used to call her that when they were intimate together. She would see the saliva that had dried up on Mr. Winter's chin, smell his ill and sleeping scent. One morning, she awoke him, but he wasn't speaking. As she took his blood, he stared at her. She recapped, stuck her finger. It was bleeding. Blood spread onto his fingers. She was small. She touched his skin.


I bought a blonde wig while I was away on business. It was straight and long. When I got back to the hotel, I put it on and thought that I looked like Kim Chinquee. I dressed up and walked the streets. Nobody knew me. I could sing praises from a hymnal. My hair was blonde. I wore it home.