Cut.

A favourite coworker of mine is a butcher. Under his mutton chops he bears extensive facial scaring, a result of a car accident that left him in a coma for months. It is, obviously, exceptionally attractive. And the man loves knives. He adores them. I'll regularly catch him admiring one, shining it on a clean patch on his bloody white coat, holding it to the light to watch it glint like a stage villain. I laugh at him, and he grins, clearly enjoying having been caught. Besides caressing the underside of my lizard-brain in a number of the correct places, I know the feeling. I fixate on the fish, myself. But we both know a certain bloodlust, an unabashedly wicked glee. It is the pleasure of doing something terrible well. There is little place for such worship in this passionless modern world.

I attended my niece's sixth birthday party tonight. I returned laden with the satisfaction of having taught the little lady to roller skate in the kitchen, some excellent cake, and a set of good knives: steak knives, a chef's knife, and a bread knife. The bread knife in particular is a thing I've never owned but longed for for years. I actually purred upon unwrapping them. They're nothing fancy. I desire and deserve a spectacular set of knives, something worthy of my profession and my skill, but I won't allow myself to spend such money until I've settled somewhere. But these are useful things. They're more than sufficient, for now. I've never known a better party favour.