Bite Marks

She’s cutting an apple at the kitchen counter. Crisp, rhythmic, mechanical. The knife makes that hollow sound against the cutting board,

Clack. Clack.

I watch her wrist turn with each slice.

The apple’s brown where she bit it an hour ago. Left it on the counter, walked away, came back to it. Now she’s cutting around the bite mark like it belongs to someone else.

She scrapes the slices into a bowl she won’t eat from. The knife goes in the sink. She rinses her hands longer than hands need rinsing. Fingers splayed. Palms up. Water hissing.

“Want some apple?” she says.

“I’m good.”

She nods. Dries her hands on the dish towel, folds it twice, and hangs it back on the oven handle. She lingers to tuck in the tag and line up the edges.

I lift the mug, puzzle over the oil slick floating on the surface, tilt it. Watch the sheen fracture and close, fracture and close.

I drink it anyway because my hands need something to do. Because she’s standing there waiting for me to ask if she’s okay, or say my next line.

“I should get ready,” she says.

“Okay.”

She leaves the bowl on the counter. The apple slices glisten, then dull. The edges tinge brown.

I sit there until I hear the shower. Then I stand, dump my coffee in the sink, rinse the mug, and put it in the dishwasher. I throw the apple slices away. Squirt dish soap into a sponge. Clean the cutting board. Wipe down the counter she already wiped down.

When she comes out, her hair dangles in wet ringlets. Her face scrubbed clean, eyes rimmed in red, holding the ghost of a pressure. Patchouli lingers in her wake, dark, humid, a little sour.

“See you tonight,” she says without looking.

“Okay, baby.”

The door clicks shut behind her. I’m standing where she stood. The counter is cold under my palms. My hands don’t know what to do now that everything’s done.

The knife rests in the sink. The one with the yellow handle. The one Angie bought at a yard sale fifteen years ago. Said it felt good in her hand. One of the few things I kept.

She’s never asked where it came from.

I could wash it, dry it, slide it back into the drawer. The junk lane, with the potato peeler, bottle opener, and wooden spoon with the burn mark.

I let it lie.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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