It’s funny how you can know the meaningless objects of your life, the myriad insignificant possessions and knick-knacks we call “our stuff,” so well as to recognize them by their smallest parts. How just the angle at the tip of the steel blade, the way the honed edge recedes from the flat top in its graceful, sensual curve, tells me exactly which slot in the knife block is empty at this, my last of all moments.

It’s funny how those meaningless objects can so suddenly take on incomprehensible meaning. How at this one crystalline instant of deepest betrayal, my Henckls nine-inch chef’s knife suddenly becomes the last connection I will ever have with you, whom I had thought I loved so piercingly.

But then, it was obvious really, your choice of weapon. It’s the only knife I bother to keep sharp. It’s the only one long enough to make its identity known to me.

I can see, now, what should have been obvious before. I should have known you’d never have the balls do it to my face.