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The knife cuts through easily.
The flesh of the tomato gives in, a line appearing where the blade cuts through just before it cuts in half.
Yor lets out a small sigh of relief. She has not cut through the wooden cutting board, nor has she accidentally cut her own finger.
It’s been years since she finally managed to cut fruits and vegetables without incident, but she can’t help the nervous shifting in her chest sometimes.
She moves on, cutting up another tomato for the dinner salad. Anya would be coming home late due to overtime work, and Yor wanted to prepare dinner before she arrived home.
Like Loid did for her.
Yor goes through the motions.
Opening up the cupboard, taking out plates and cups to place on the table. Forks and knives put in their place, waiting to be used. Two cups, one for herself and the other for her daughter.
Yor can’t help but wonder how Loid felt when he did this. To prepare food for someone he cared for, thinking of their well-being.
Her mind wanders, a fleeting memory filling her mind.
“Loid, I don’t think I can do it…”
Her voice comes out timidly as she dejectedly looks at the kitchen knife and apple in front of her. Long, tender fingers are covered in multiple band-aids.
Loid gives her a soft, encouraging smile.
“Sure you can,” he says. “It just takes some practice is all. When I first started, I made plenty of mistakes as well.”
Yor blinks. She tries to imagine it for a moment: Her husband, struggling with cutting a tomato. The image feels fake, as if someone else was trying to act like him.
Loid chuckles a little from his wife’s surprised expression. “It’s true. I was never quite good with a knife either. Took me a while until I actually learned how to use it in a way where I wasn’t just blindly chopping.”
Again, he demonstrates for her. Yor watches carefully, observing how his hands move. He’s careful, yet precise. Though he could cut faster, he does so in a way where his wife can better see his movements.
Once he’s done, he offers the knife to her. Again, he gives her that same encouraging smile.
“You try.”
Yor hesitates for a moment, her lips pressed in a line. Then, she gingerly takes the knife from him.
Again, she tries to mimic his movements. Yor thinks about how he carefully places his hand on the fruit, and how he exerts just enough strength to cut through it. Calm, focused, precise.
She takes a deep breath first, preparing herself. For a moment, she looks at her husband again before she takes the leap.
He is by her side, his eyes still giving that silent, warm encouragement. It’s all she needs before she tries again.
Yor’s heart warms, then melts as she presses the knife down on the thin, red skin.
She doesn’t realize that her eyes are watering until the memory finishes.
Yor’s face is in her hands as she leans on the kitchen counter. An old ache, one that has stayed with her ever since that day, intensifies from the memory. Bittersweet, yet more painful that she expected it to be.
Yor catches her breath as she breathes in deeply, slowly. She shakes her head, trying to lessen the tears that threaten to fall as she calms herself down.
Today isn’t a day where she wanted her daughter to walk in on her tear stained and swollen face. Anya had seen her cry enough times.
So again, she takes a deep breath, and picks up the knife.
Her heart stills, then beats again.