We’re in the kitchen, arguing, and both keenly aware of the knife in the sink. Our eyes look to it as the other hollers their position, how they were wronged, need to be right. The fridge kicks in. Its hum breaks the sudden quiet.
The knife is still there, but one of them is not. The screen door swings closed. It would slam but the springs are old, and creak closed instead of snapping back into the frame. The other thinks of those sprawling seconds where their eyes lingered and their fingers twitched and they almost reached out for it.