Dulled
I remember the sharp object, the way it glittered under the kitchen lights, the nicks along the blade, the way you told me that it was more dangerous this way, blunted so that you had to use more power to cut. The blade could slip, it could jump from the red bell pepper on the cutting board (our sacrifice, still intact, unaware of the awaiting evisceration), jump from its flesh to your opposite hand.
“A sharp knife is your most important kitchen tool,” you told me. I watched as you straightened it against a steel, remembered a time when we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other, the panting across tables, the wanting and wantonness. Time and proximity had dulled us, too.
The nape of your neck looked cool, too cool for me to touch. The kitchen tile held my feet. I decided not to say anything, to let this lesson be without subtext, decided to ignore the dangerousness of blunted emotion. Straightening over, you took a thumb to the blade. You showed me the difference, held down the pepper, and sliced into its crispness.
Love, when it is sharp and new, when the couple is like a single knife blade, has its own dangers: the melding, the way the we are reflected in the metal, the way love's intensity threatens our core. Time dulls, and little pains do, too, and then you press too hard and someone gets cut, the sanctity of skin and blood vessels and self violated.
We ate salad that night, crisp romaine and bell pepper, the vinaigrette sharp, the olives a sour counterpoint to freshness. We sat across from each other, silent under the sounds of knife and fork, under the soft collisions between metal and ceramic and tooth. I watched you, the observer. I prepared myself for the cut, for the jagged gash, like I’d been preparing myself since the beginning.
You would not disappoint.
From the prompt "I remember."
I'm posting every messy Round Robin prompt, a prompt a day until the RR ends. Unless I tell you otherwise, this is the original 12-minute prompt edited only for clarity and typos.
Image by GavinBell.