The steak knife, designed by some television chef, is perfectly balanced. Granted, it’s not resting at the side of the cutting board, in its usual spot, but I still can recall the exact claims of the infomercial. Images of halved grapefruits blur in my head, and I try to shake them away. I have to focus on what’s at hand.

The door slams open, and I sink to the floor. The black handle is so smooth, plastic and rubber molded for my comfort. The marble tile above my head is clean, and smells like Lysol. I close my eyes and wait, but no booming voice brings tears to my eyes. The tv is on, and I can hear the sound of a can opening. I stand, wiping the knife on my jeans, and look down at the tomatoes on the counter. The pot on the stove heats, waiting for them.

“You makin’ spaghetti, Ter?” he asks from his leather armchair. I can’t see him, but I know the look on his face, the set of the lines around his mouth. I know by heart that they are not from smiling.

“Yeah, babe, with meat sauce.”

“Damnit, Ter.”