She held the knife just six inches in front of his face. "I'm going to cut you with this, aren't I?"
He tried to speak, tried simply to open his mouth, but all he could do was shake and stare at the cold metal blade in front of him. He swallowed.
She grasped him by his hair and shoved him forward, almost into the knife. "I said, I'm going to cut you with this, aren't I?"
With great effort, he forced his head up and down.
"Say it," she hissed.
He looked to the side, out the window. Nothing there but city lights. Then back at the knife. He couldn't look her in the face. "Yes..."
She nudged him even further forward.
"Yes...you're going to...cut me."
"Good boy," she said, almost cooing, and she blew coolly on the sweat mopping his hair to his forehead. For a moment, he thought she was just being threatening, and relaxed into her breath, feeling it on his eyes too.
And then the ice cold slice came suddenly, on the side of his face. He gripped the arms of the chair and let out a wrenching, rising whimper, shutting his eyes tightly. And just as his mouth opened the widest, she dropped the knife to the floor, and pushed her lips to his, feeling his cry flow into her lungs.
Like lemonade, she kissed the hurt.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia