Despite my having tried to keep it clean, the white interior of the sink is spattered with blood.
The slab of salmon that’s intended for supper smells of salt and water-reek, and the heat of the sun pouring through the kitchen window does nothing to help.
However, though the scent is pervasive and slightly unpleasant, I enjoy the feel of the flesh itself.
It’s a tactile pleasure that one only finds in cold, unprepared meats.
The give and stop of unresistant muscle between my fingers is an interesting sensation.
So I slip off the skin and scatter the scales and slice and slice and slice and stumble with the knife.
The sudden sting in my knuckle is worsened by the fish-juice, and it mingles unfortunately with the blood in the sink.
And I look at the slab and wonder quietly, ‘what kind of sting did you feel?’
I wander away, fingers now redder, and tend to the cut and give it a band-aid; one with little cartoon characters on it from the bathroom upstairs.
Returning to the cutting board, I pause and stare.
My eyes follow the grain of the meat in its beautiful, waving patterns.
Much like myself, with similar, yarn-doll fibers and woven lines of sinew.
The oven beeps to tell me it is heated.
Carefully, I continue to cut.