Her Chicken Scratch

This one doesn’t need a title

The blade of the knife caught at the grains of the counter top.

He slid the knife across the table in her direction. His voice sheer and hollow much like his facial expression. Wide-eyed with his heavy set lines that seemed to crumple inwards, then downwards beneath his nose.

His hair a mixture of streaked black and grey, with some sort of oil that was plopped on top in efforts to smooth flyaways.

The knife had a soft sound, sort of like the static roll sound that gravel makes when it’s being shovelled into a wheelbarrow on a summer evenings construction project. When the air was still sweet.

She stepped to the left then. Thinking it would effortlessly hit the floor with a clank, and not hit the floor so hard it stuck upright. Sharp side down at least.

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