it is really quite funny how she says 'i could cut you' and the ten or so people that stand with puffy chests in a bent circular arrangement in her modest living room would break out in unified chuckling, none of them remembering - especially the ladies in their chain-store floral skirts - that to be less of an amateur at being faux posh, they should be lifting a hand to their mouth with lightly dramatic flair to hide the spinach bits stuck to their gums in between off-white teeth; surely, before they all waddled out into the rainy outdoors for this awkward soiree, that they looked up on the internet on the do's and don'ts of the life they aspire to lead, and ladies of this life should ideally shrink back from the platter of appetizers with spinach and supermarket feta as clearly illustrated in the manual, but these damn impersonators and dreamers, what do they know about the elitist etiquette they trounced in their awaken fervor and hurry back to assemble within the plush comfort of their youth - she thought through all these quick notions, with a pinch more nerviness than words could accommodate, in the moments immediately  before and after the emptiness of her mind when she said 'i could cut you' for she sucked in all the willingness her guts had accumulated for a good two years or so and invested them in those four words that were tender as her warm flesh heating up by minute degrees, she uttered a portion of her restlessness in the quiet utterance that was slightly above a verbal pipsqueak mistake that could be easily swept away in situational management by an anxious passing breeze but alas no, they all heard her and proceeded to chuckle in the glimmer of her fairy-light home as she stands in the middle of the room wondering how on earth she happened to be here at this specific point in time, and why she placed herself on the coordinates her feet faithfully roots upon instead of trotting to the corner where the light does not catch, and the dimensional eccentricities of the city could bustle on by as she revels in the quietude of an exile by choice and fatigue, 'i could cut you' she blurted with an angry exhaustion in the glaze of her eyes, as the slender-necked glasses swiftly stole her glance while they could to emptily reflect the degeneration of her wits and the deepening blood color of her lips that now purse and pucker to hold back her stump of tongue.