The knife skills class was Zach's idea. I couldn't cook for shit, but I liked how its four sessions hinted at a certain level of commitment. After weeks of texting, I craved something bolder than the usual barstool chitchat before the inevitable suggestion to find somewhere quieter. I resolved that, this time, things would be different.

We took separate trains there—him, pink; me, red—and hugged when we met on the platform. In person, he was cuter than his photos. His moppish curls flopped in front of his glasses.

I chose a stainless table in the store's back corner, behind a sea of couples who varied only in their degrees of familiarity: the conspicuous sparkle of the recently engaged, some canoodling newlyweds, a sprinkling of pairs who'd been together so long they looked alike. Not many fellow first dates, which I interpreted as a sign of our maturity.

The instructor circled the room to demonstrate proper sharpening technique for the blades we'd just purchased with our store discounts. We aped her movements, curling our hands into what she called monkey paws to avoid nicking ourselves. Don't put your index finger on top of the knife, she reminded us, or rather, me. I kept forgetting. It felt safer to hold it that way.

Back on the platform, he tried to kiss me. I turned to give him my cheek, blowing my breath like smoke into the cold night air. I was not that girl anymore.

. . .

Last night was fun

                                         Yup

Next class feels so far
away. You free Friday?

                                         Argh, busy

                                         See you Monday!

Aside from a hamper of laundry, I had nothing planned. I was no fool. After Phil left, I'd brushed up on the latest literature. The gist: men like the chase. Why buy the cow. And so on.

. . .

The next week, Zach wore his Urlacher jersey and pretended he didn't mind missing the game. A few couples didn't show, so we moved up front, proud to have signed up for something and stuck to it.

We julienned the knuckles out of knobby carrots. We planked peppers, not disturbing a single seed. We butterflied celery stalks, one clean slice from the throat to the base. We chopped onions without crying. Our arms brushed together between vegetables. Keep your knives on the cutting board, the instructor chided.

She distributed containers to take our work home. Like I'm gonna whip up a stock, I muttered. Freeze it, he whispered. The next time you're sick, you can make chicken soup—or maybe I could bring some to you.

I couldn't meet his eye. Had that tissue square been stuck to his throat this whole time? He traced my distracted glance, patted his neck, and flicked it away. Shaving mishap.

Under the station's warming light, his brown eyes looked pitiful. This time, I kissed him back, hard, like we were the only idiots out there. It was the least I could do. Two pink lines passed before he got on.

. . .

Home now

                                         Me too

Miss you already

. . .

Week three required more precise implements. Zach treated me to a paring knife—for your collection. Yeah, right, I thought but didn't say. Before this class, I owned one blade with a loose plastic handle that I used for everything on the rare nights I didn't order takeout.

We chiffonaded basil into ribbons. We minced garlic into sticky paste. We removed citrus tops and bottoms, unsheathing segments from pith.

Great teamwork. The instructor hovered, oblivious that the room was now half empty. More couples had quit. Don't forget, next week, the finale! Our most advanced class yet. We'll butcher, we'll fillet—then we'll feast!

On the platform, I slipped my hands into his pockets. I forgot my gloves. They were in my bag; it was just something to say. When the pink line arrived, we both stepped on. I'd been so good for so long.

. . .

Still thinking about
last night

                                         Thanks

Srsly, you're amazing

. . .

We were the only ones who made it to the last week.

Those other deadbeats couldn't hack it. We're in it for the long haul. He set his insulated lunchbox on the table and unspooled his scarf, revealing a dried smear of blood on his neck. This guy needed better razors. I'd try to remember that come Christmas.

I draped my parka over the stool. Maybe it says more about us. We're the only ones game for cutting up things that once had a pulse.

It's not like we killed this snapper. It's already dead. We're honoring its memory.

Yeah, by flushing its remains down this garbage disposal.

How strange, to nip at each other, like one of those lookalike couples. I'd never been one for banter before.

Nice job, the instructor told him. Clean cuts, zero waste. Beautiful. She pointed at me. Your turn.

Wait— He reached into his lunchbox and retrieved a plastic bag, which he plopped on the table. A fist-sized maroon blob sloshed out. It puddled in its thick liquid.

Ooh, a pig's heart. That's some next-level butchery.

He patted his chest. Only then did I notice the blood soaking his plaid button-up.

You're shitting me.

I shit you not. That same pitiful look twisted his face into something approaching hope. You're the only one I trust with it.

That makes no sense. You don't even know me.

I do. Don't you?

I bit my lip. My hand shook as I steadied the organ with my monkey paw. With the other, I pressed the steel tip into his flesh. I don't know what I'm doing, I warned.

You do, he said.

You do, the instructor echoed.

Blood covered the table, my apron, the floor. It squished under my soles. A familiar calm washed over me like an ice bath. I cut into the aorta, then the ventricle, my finger stabilizing the blade. What else could I do.

I do.

Colleen Rothman lives in New Orleans. She's had stories in X-R-A-Y, matchbook, Bridge Eight, Okay Donkey and others.

Read her postcard.

Detail of collage on main page courtesy of Joana Coccarelli.

W i g l e a f               03-23-19                                [home]