by Jean Mullen
Jenna loved her tile saw. Water dripped over the blade so delicately that she almost expected to hear wind chimes or whale songs rather than the whirr and crunch of metal digging into thick ceramic. She pushed the tile forward, torso arched back, hands placed firmly away from the blade. Soft water slid over her fingertips. She loved the feeling. She reached for the saw’s switch and examined her cut. It was perfect, straight and even. She smiled. The last piece.