“Cut me”, she says, offering me a knife and an arm. My knife, my carving knife. Her arm is pale, veins pronounced.
Blue, thin.
I look into her cold gray eyes. I seek something there. Something pronounced. But all I get is a
tired
bloodshot
stare.

“No”, I say, pulling on my beer. Our fridge is broken. The beer’s been on the table for a week. I drink it still, even though it’s
warm, flat.
I want to say something more. I want to see something there. Something profound. But all I can offer is a
tired
bloodshot
stare.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She screams, slamming the knife down onto the table. The knife belonged to my grandfather, then my father, and now it’s
old, dull.
“Don’t you even care anymore?” She seeks something with that. “You used to love me, you used to care, but now you’re just a
tired
old
fool.”

“Yeah,” I say, noncommittal. Apathetic. Her makeup is smeared from sweat, from sex. She trembles with anger, with guilt. Her blouse is
wrinkled, torn.
I want to cut him. I want to do something bad to him. But he’s not here, he’s gone and ran away like a
scared
little
boy.

“Why won’t you do anything?” She screams, again. She’s in a rage, a fit. Her muscles tense, her jaw clenched. I almost want to laugh at her, but I stay
silent, still.
“You’re pathetic,” she says, quietly. “Call me names, call me a whore.” She wants to feel justified with that. “If you loved me you
would
cut
me.”

“No,” I say. I take another pull on my beer. I’m surprised at myself. I should be the one in a rage, a fit. But I only feel
old, wasted.
I look at her again. I want to see something there. I want to remember the woman I married. But I can’t. “No,” I say again. “If I loved you, I
would
kill
you.”