Man with a Knife
Ankle is good, 319 miles down, Belgium in three weeks. In honor of that impending trip, here's an oldy. This guy made the rounds every year...
Man with a Knife
You are a man at my door with a knife and that's my favorite part of the story, the part I'm willing to pay for. My sleepy Eden is green and wet, soft mossy lawn hugs a cozy white house and wood smoke seeps into the air. You've knocked and I've answered, and there you stand, grizzled grey face coated in rough long whiskers, red flannel sleeves rolled up to elbows. Tall green hedges shield us from view, with a practiced flick of the wrist you pull your blade through the hard red orb nestled neatly in the palm of your gnarled hand.
Les pommes, you say. Apples from your twelve hectare farm you say. You talk fast with soft, round, rolling r's dredged up from your throat the way my French teacher drills me to speak. I catch every fourth word or so, my eyes hypnotized by the glinty shine of the pitted blade you hold. You hand me two wet, shiny halves, the white flesh of the fruit glistening.
Your words slow, thicken to entice me, take, eat you say, with hushed reverence. Like you're offering the body of Christ, like it's what will save me. I take the cool, smooth halves, hold my eyes on you, bite into the sweet crisp fruit, and I say yes. Yes, old man. Yes, I'll listen. Yes, weave your well told tale. I'm not going anywhere. I know you'll lie, tell me what you think I need to hear. You'll stretch the truth thin, tell me the apples will stay fresh for months, that they were picked only a day ago. I know what lying sounds like old man and I forgive you, because who am I to judge? I know you'll lie til I unsnap my soft silk purse, tug out crisp bills to pay for the soft soggy cartons heaped with fruit.
You have a knife and that is my favorite part of the story. With tunnel vision I see that prop will last longer than the crates of sweet rotting excess left in the corner of my garage (best place to store them you say). I don't care if you really own a farm, or if your daughter is a veterinarian. That knife could take us anywhere old man, that knife is story gold
Say you were not kind, or I tripped and fell into you, or or or… I am Snow white and you are the Wicked Witch, I am Eve and you are a snake. I am a housewife and you are an old, desperate man trying to make a living. The apples? They can be pie or tarts, sure. They can be knowledge or immortality, the goodness of providence, the fall of man, temptation, seduction, sin itself. But the knife? I let you stay for the knife. Transcends symbolism, cuts to the chase.
I like the knife, old man. It gives us both an edge.
Man with a Knife
You are a man at my door with a knife and that's my favorite part of the story, the part I'm willing to pay for. My sleepy Eden is green and wet, soft mossy lawn hugs a cozy white house and wood smoke seeps into the air. You've knocked and I've answered, and there you stand, grizzled grey face coated in rough long whiskers, red flannel sleeves rolled up to elbows. Tall green hedges shield us from view, with a practiced flick of the wrist you pull your blade through the hard red orb nestled neatly in the palm of your gnarled hand.
Les pommes, you say. Apples from your twelve hectare farm you say. You talk fast with soft, round, rolling r's dredged up from your throat the way my French teacher drills me to speak. I catch every fourth word or so, my eyes hypnotized by the glinty shine of the pitted blade you hold. You hand me two wet, shiny halves, the white flesh of the fruit glistening.
Your words slow, thicken to entice me, take, eat you say, with hushed reverence. Like you're offering the body of Christ, like it's what will save me. I take the cool, smooth halves, hold my eyes on you, bite into the sweet crisp fruit, and I say yes. Yes, old man. Yes, I'll listen. Yes, weave your well told tale. I'm not going anywhere. I know you'll lie, tell me what you think I need to hear. You'll stretch the truth thin, tell me the apples will stay fresh for months, that they were picked only a day ago. I know what lying sounds like old man and I forgive you, because who am I to judge? I know you'll lie til I unsnap my soft silk purse, tug out crisp bills to pay for the soft soggy cartons heaped with fruit.
You have a knife and that is my favorite part of the story. With tunnel vision I see that prop will last longer than the crates of sweet rotting excess left in the corner of my garage (best place to store them you say). I don't care if you really own a farm, or if your daughter is a veterinarian. That knife could take us anywhere old man, that knife is story gold
Say you were not kind, or I tripped and fell into you, or or or… I am Snow white and you are the Wicked Witch, I am Eve and you are a snake. I am a housewife and you are an old, desperate man trying to make a living. The apples? They can be pie or tarts, sure. They can be knowledge or immortality, the goodness of providence, the fall of man, temptation, seduction, sin itself. But the knife? I let you stay for the knife. Transcends symbolism, cuts to the chase.
I like the knife, old man. It gives us both an edge.
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