SECOND PLACE SUDDEN FICTION
cleaver KYLE SNOW
Seared ahi tuna is her favorite meal and tonight is our anniversary. I tell this to the man at the fish market because this is my first time here. He heaves fish around without a word. When the man holds one up, limp in his left hand, I nod and smile. It is not unlike the reassuring smile I gave my wife last night before bed. She fears our family will not grow; I missed my appointment today. I think to tell someone, to tell this man, but his wrinkled frown carries the warning of judgment. I wonder how often he smiles. He lops off the head, and the slam of his cleaver brings me back to our kitchen, with her at the counter. She split an onion in two with one clean movement of her knife, and said she didn’t understand. I put on my coat to grab the mail, and then waited for her to look up. She peeled back the layers and threw them into a stew while her eyes wept tears from the onion, or maybe because of the fear growing inside her. He cleaves the body and lays the fillets on the chopping block, skinside down. His fingers peel away some of the insides and he flings them into a tub. He tilts his head back and tosses something into his throat, and then swallows. He brings his hand up again, offering me the rest of the eggs cupped between his fingers. When I refuse and say no, he pushes Kyle Snow
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