He has a knife in his hand. In front of him, on the porcelain, lie the targets of his attentions.
He will cut the left one first. Cleanly from top to bottom with a single, decisive movement of the blade. Not so deep as to cut straight through, but deep enough to loose what’s within and send it spilling outwards, bleeding hot, life giving gold over the crunchy brown beneath and spilling over onto the plain white plate. Pools of life to be mopped up when the cutting’s over.
He dabs the corner of his mouth with the napkin and smiles.

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