Sarra Pulls a Knife
Sarra and I froze. She motioned me to move up against the wall. She pressed herself against the wall on the other side of the door. She held her finger to her lips. Whoever just walked in had clearly realized something was up. From the regular noises of entering and the clink of keys perhaps thrown into a glass bowl, a sudden stillness had descended on the other room. I hadn't even heard the door close.
I looked around for a weapon. How many times had I imagined this. The intruder comes in--in this case, we were the intruders, but there was no time for technicalities--and you pull a large butcher knife from the block. I always went with the knife first, thinking of it as the most dangerous item in a kitchen. I immediately discovered that even in my imagination, I couldn't quite shove it into anyone. All that bone and gristle and those blood-filled organs were just not things I wished to slice open.
After failing to imagine wielding a deadly knife, I would imagine a good, solid iron pan. My mother had made cornbread in just such a pan when I was a kid. She had to use two hands to heft the burning hot thing from the oven. A good swing with a pan like that, no harder than hitting a nice line-drive with a baseball bat, that was completely doable.
The problem was that in these violent fantasies of self preservation, the intruder always fell down, sure, grabbing his head, but then he stood right back up, glaring at me. He was always huge, of course, and now he was a huge man with a really painful headache. He picked me up like the thin tall man I was and before I could say "sorry about the pan thing," I was on my way out the nearest skyscraper window. Luckily this was just a little bungalow. At least I would only break an arm or some ribs when this guy tossed me into the garden.
Sarra did not need to imagine any of these things because she already had a long painfully thin knife in her right hand. Where had she gotten it? I had not seen it lying around in the house. Could she be the kind of person who carried such a brutal instrument? I did not think so, but there she was, leaning forward in anticipation, a rather unbelievable grin spreading across her face.
A head poked into the living room. It had long blond hair, a mustache, and an untended beard, but the man was not old, no more than thirty, and he was handsome. Could this really be Heinrich? He was wearing baggy shorts and a brewery t-shirt. He could have been my college roommate, ten years later, peeking into the living room, hanging his head sheepishly because he drank all our beer.
As Sarra leapt forward, he seemed to smile a little and let his shoulders slump. He didn't even raise his arms.
I looked around for a weapon. How many times had I imagined this. The intruder comes in--in this case, we were the intruders, but there was no time for technicalities--and you pull a large butcher knife from the block. I always went with the knife first, thinking of it as the most dangerous item in a kitchen. I immediately discovered that even in my imagination, I couldn't quite shove it into anyone. All that bone and gristle and those blood-filled organs were just not things I wished to slice open.
After failing to imagine wielding a deadly knife, I would imagine a good, solid iron pan. My mother had made cornbread in just such a pan when I was a kid. She had to use two hands to heft the burning hot thing from the oven. A good swing with a pan like that, no harder than hitting a nice line-drive with a baseball bat, that was completely doable.
The problem was that in these violent fantasies of self preservation, the intruder always fell down, sure, grabbing his head, but then he stood right back up, glaring at me. He was always huge, of course, and now he was a huge man with a really painful headache. He picked me up like the thin tall man I was and before I could say "sorry about the pan thing," I was on my way out the nearest skyscraper window. Luckily this was just a little bungalow. At least I would only break an arm or some ribs when this guy tossed me into the garden.
Sarra did not need to imagine any of these things because she already had a long painfully thin knife in her right hand. Where had she gotten it? I had not seen it lying around in the house. Could she be the kind of person who carried such a brutal instrument? I did not think so, but there she was, leaning forward in anticipation, a rather unbelievable grin spreading across her face.
A head poked into the living room. It had long blond hair, a mustache, and an untended beard, but the man was not old, no more than thirty, and he was handsome. Could this really be Heinrich? He was wearing baggy shorts and a brewery t-shirt. He could have been my college roommate, ten years later, peeking into the living room, hanging his head sheepishly because he drank all our beer.
As Sarra leapt forward, he seemed to smile a little and let his shoulders slump. He didn't even raise his arms.