The Knives

A cautionary tale;

“You can’t give knives as gifts!” My mother informed me, after I’d revealed my plan for my boyfriend Paul’s birthday gift.

“Why not?” I wondered as we navigated our way through the busy Daleyork Mall hallways.

“They say it severs the friendship,” she explained. I could tell by the serious tone in her voice that she believed this to be 100 percent true. I likened it to her beliefs in Feng Shui and magnetic therapies. A little loopy.

I laughed, “well, I don’t have to worry about that with Paul.”

Part of the appeal of buying Paul the Zwilling knives he so coveted was the actual purchasing experience. I marched right into William Sonoma in my clearance Forever 21 outfit, my head held high. The snooty store clerks didn’t give me a second glace, assuming I was just there to gawk at the merchandise. Not this time. I confidently asked the worker on the floor to retrieve the knife block Paul had preselected and paid a pretty penny for the present.

Paul loved his knives. I loved his knives. By virtue of living in his house, I had full access to them. My parents only ever had dull knives in their drawers at home. With these new knives, cooking was a dream. I never knew chopping vegetables could be so effortless. Overripe tomato skins stood no match for those blades.

Just over a month of owning the knives, they landed us in the hospital. Paul and I were preparing a wine and cheese and cured meat supper board one evening. As Paul attempted to slice through the cone of the baguette he was maimed, in the kitchen, with the bread knife. We ate and drank and watched an entire movie before we realized Paul was still bleeding. Then we visited the hospital.

Just over four months of owning the knives, we broke up. We stayed friends for an entire year before we realized Paul was still bleeding. Then we ceased all communication.

You can’t give knives as gifts.

2014