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The blood wells up and flows out of the cut, making a faint metallic sound as it drips into

the perfectly polished sink. I look past my finger, down at the jagged red droplets, mesmerized,

moving my hand a few inches. I let the blood drip, drip, drip out of my body. I wonder

how long I would have to bleed at this rate to die. A long time. A very long time.

Honey! My wife says, suddenly standing in the bright kitchen. What happened?

Snapping out of my days, I look up into her beautiful face. Her brows knit together

briefly, in that way that used to bring me so much joy. Shame suddenly comes flooding

into me, and I put the knife in my right hand down in the marble counter. Nothing, just

an accidental cut. I said, she looks around the kitchen, seeing no cutting board, no

food, nothing but the knife on the counter, and the blood leaving me and dripping into

the sink. Everything else is in its place, exactly as it should be. I think for a moment

that she'll ask me what I was cutting, but she doesn't. Maybe she doesn't need to. Maybe

she doesn't want to hear me lie. She disappears back into the hallway, then comes back moments

later with a first aid kit.

Are you okay? She asks me, setting the kit down next to the sink, and going into what

I like to call Dr. Mode. Fine, I say, just an accident. She cleans and bandages my left

...