It was about four years later that she came back into my life. We met casually on the subway, and we started talking as if we were old friends. She didn't mention the incident with the knife, and neither did I.
We started seeing each other regularly. Not dating, but as though we were rekindling a long lost friendship, which we had never had in reality. We pretended that was not the case.
A couple of movies, two or three concerts and innumerable coffees. Almost unconsciouly, we avoided any situation where utensils -other than a harmless miniature spoon- might be present. But it came the day I slipped and proposed we did lunch. She said sure, why not, a girl's gotta eat. I, irresponsibly, asked how about if I cooked and we ate at my place. Brilliant. That wasn't an earth-shattering disaster waiting to happen. Not at all.
Going back to the scene of the crime isn't all that's cracked up to be. Not if you have lived there for the last decade, at least.
Mild uncomfortableness showed in her face when she came in. Maybe she would have expected me to have moved by now. I could have been seeing things, but there was definitely not a speck of gilt or shame there.
Painfully aware of my unfortunate mistake, I already had everything ready. No cooking left to do. But, of course, oh silly me, there was still plenty of carving and cutting to do. I could have made Moroccan, maybe some couscous we could use only our hands to consume. Some nice sushi, or perhaps Thai, would have made a good excuse for chopsticks. The thought did enter my mind. However, being the people-pleaser that I am, I remember her favorite was Italian. What's a girl to do.
Naturally I could not keep my eyes off her hands as she skillfully -maybe a little too skillfully- sliced a chicken scallopine. She must have noticed. She put the knife down and speared a piece with her fork. Holding the fork up close to her mouth, she looked at me and gave me a little smugish smile before she ate it. I uneasily looked away and was about to focus my attention to my own plate when I heard a soft groan. She had accidentally stabbed herself in the back of her hand as she put it down.
She gave me a quick look and took the knife out. A puff of air escaped from the open wound. It sounded artificial, pneumatic. There was horror in her eyes when she looked back at me. Contradiction is all she could probably see in mine. I was torn, between disbelief and hilarity. The irony was too much to resist, so I gave free way to my amusement and chuckled.
Our enigmatic, and slighlty creepy, episode in the kitchen all those years ago had genuinely puzzled me for quite a while. Until I understood the point she was trying to make. My unresponsiveness, my enableness. When, all along, she was the bloodless one.
We started seeing each other regularly. Not dating, but as though we were rekindling a long lost friendship, which we had never had in reality. We pretended that was not the case.
A couple of movies, two or three concerts and innumerable coffees. Almost unconsciouly, we avoided any situation where utensils -other than a harmless miniature spoon- might be present. But it came the day I slipped and proposed we did lunch. She said sure, why not, a girl's gotta eat. I, irresponsibly, asked how about if I cooked and we ate at my place. Brilliant. That wasn't an earth-shattering disaster waiting to happen. Not at all.
Going back to the scene of the crime isn't all that's cracked up to be. Not if you have lived there for the last decade, at least.
Mild uncomfortableness showed in her face when she came in. Maybe she would have expected me to have moved by now. I could have been seeing things, but there was definitely not a speck of gilt or shame there.
Painfully aware of my unfortunate mistake, I already had everything ready. No cooking left to do. But, of course, oh silly me, there was still plenty of carving and cutting to do. I could have made Moroccan, maybe some couscous we could use only our hands to consume. Some nice sushi, or perhaps Thai, would have made a good excuse for chopsticks. The thought did enter my mind. However, being the people-pleaser that I am, I remember her favorite was Italian. What's a girl to do.
Naturally I could not keep my eyes off her hands as she skillfully -maybe a little too skillfully- sliced a chicken scallopine. She must have noticed. She put the knife down and speared a piece with her fork. Holding the fork up close to her mouth, she looked at me and gave me a little smugish smile before she ate it. I uneasily looked away and was about to focus my attention to my own plate when I heard a soft groan. She had accidentally stabbed herself in the back of her hand as she put it down.
She gave me a quick look and took the knife out. A puff of air escaped from the open wound. It sounded artificial, pneumatic. There was horror in her eyes when she looked back at me. Contradiction is all she could probably see in mine. I was torn, between disbelief and hilarity. The irony was too much to resist, so I gave free way to my amusement and chuckled.
Our enigmatic, and slighlty creepy, episode in the kitchen all those years ago had genuinely puzzled me for quite a while. Until I understood the point she was trying to make. My unresponsiveness, my enableness. When, all along, she was the bloodless one.
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