The Damascus steel, fresh off eight sets of eight strokes at fifteen degrees against the diamond rod, meets no resistance when you turn it on yourself by accident. Across the web of skin that spans forefinger and thumb, a line of blood appears and lengthens until the bright sting of pain arrives. You place the boning knife to the side of your butcher block with a gasp that you hope the other cooks don’t hear. You hold the cut to your mouth and when you remove it from between your lips, you pretend what you see is a gash in someone else’s flesh.
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