Are You Going to Kill Me?

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“Are you going to kill me?” abruptly she asked when I came with a knife in my right hand.

“If I have to,” I replied with a grin, finding my way to get closer to her.

She raised her eyebrows, trembling in fear. She must have been thinking that this lovely evening could be her last. In a fraction of a second, her eyes were no longer set at the piles of books in front of her like when I entered the room, but were gazing at mine.

I took a small step, while showing off the knife, “Look. Look how sharp it is.”

She gasped, petrified. In an escalating tremor she said, “If, if this is because I gave you brutal feedback on your sixth chapter last week, then… then I’m sorry. Really. Please… please don’t do it. I have little children.”

She must have thought that my smile was a sadistic one like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lamb, but I couldn’t care less. I took another step, sat on the chair, and placed the box I had been holding in my left hand on the table, while she reflexively moved to the other side of the wall.

“What are you doing?” I asked her, puzzled by her sudden movement.

I received no reply but could feel her eyes were glued to the minute of what I was doing.

“Come here,” I said while opening the box.

“Uh?” she muttered.

“Yesterday my friend came down from Sydney, and he brought with him this Indonesian cake,” I said exultantly, while slicing the cake with the knife.

“I’d like to share it with you. You’ve never tried any Indonesian cake, right?”

She shook her head.

“Here. A slice?”

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