‘Baby, do you see the shiny spots?’ He runs his thumb over the blade and shows me where the knife is dull, then coaches me to pull the whetstone smoothly toward me, as though I am bringing it into my heart.
The smooth susurrus of knife and stone are now percussion for a song about a gypsy knife sharpener and her comically star-crossed love with a gymnast who is blind. ‘What a funny old tale,’ I chuckle, but he insists it’s true. He takes the knife from my hands and peers down the blade, one-eyed, then winks at me, flips the whetstone into his pocket, and kisses me squarely on the ear.
