Literature
Conversations in the Dark
The knife I’m holding clatters to the counter as thick, red droplets hit the cutting board and splatter over the potato I’ve been cubing. I don’t curse as I might have if Sarah were home, but she’s working late. Again.
Pinching my finger, I use my wrist to turn on the faucet and stick it under the cool water, ignoring the soft pink swirls that are making their way down the drain. I’ll have to sanitize it now and the thought brings on the sharp prick of tears that the cut didn’t. I bite my lip to keep them back. Using a paper towel to staunch the blood flow, I turn and look at my food prep. The knife and