That just happened. Kyle actually stabbed me.
Well, sort of. He didn’t stab me on purpose. It was one of those terrible moments of serenfuckity, when the universe lines up perfectly to fuck you. This time, it made my husband stab me in the arm.
You see, we have a very long, narrow kitchen. A galley kitchen, I think they’re called. They’re really most comfortable for only one person at a time to be cooking. But somehow, Kyle and I have always managed. Sure, it means some bumps and some ‘oops’ and some reaching over and around, but we’ve always been able to cook super yummy meals inside our cramped quarters. Shit, we cooked an entire Thanksgiving dinner for in that kitchen together.
Besides, if I insist that only one of us is in the kitchen at the time, I have to cook dinner all by myself.
So anyway, we’re in the kitchen slapping together some chicken salad. I’m whisking together the mayo mixture, and Kyle’s pulling apart the poached chicken breasts. He reaches for one of our kitchen knives to chop it a little more finely, and I’m crossing to the cupboard for vinegar. He turns just right, and I turn just right…
And his kitchen knife stabs me in the arm. I shriek and clutch my arm and Kyle screams, “OH MY FUCKING GOD, HOLY SHIT!” He hit me just above my elbow so I couldn’t really see it, but based on the look on his face we were going to the ER tonight. “HOW BAD IS IT?!” I screamed, as he looked on in absolute terror. “IS IT BAD?!”
That’s when I realized that my arm didn’t actually hurt.
You see, we have really good knives. But they need to be sharpened in a bad way. We know this. We’ve known this for probably a month now. About once a week one of us will be attempting to saw through a tomato and we’ll say, “Jesus f’in’ h, these knives need to be sharpened!” And the other will say, “I know, I know, they’re bad. Let’s take them in on our way to work tomorrow.” And then we’ll promptly forget, and the cycle will start all over.
Which is why when I walked into Kyle’s knife it didn’t plunge into my skin, gushing blood all over the kitchen floor. It actually pushed my flesh the way one of those toy fake knives we used to get at Halloween and run around pretending to stab each other with does. Kyle moved in for a closer look. “I think it nicked you a little.” If I looked really hard I could see the tiniest of tiny nicks, but it looked more like a freckle. I’ve cut bigger gashes in myself shaving my legs.
Kyle and I looked up at each other, frozen in place, he still holding his knife and me still clutching my arm. And we just started laughing. Hysterically. “You stabbed me!” I screamed through my laughter. “You fucking stabbed me!” Kyle was doubled over. “I know, I’m sorry, baby!” Our laughter subsided, and between some giggles we finished making our chicken salad.
And that’s how Kyle stabbed me.