the unkindest cut

A paring knife. Superior quality. forged, coated, sleek, ready. Anjou pears, Envy or Fuji apples, Havarti cheese. Its sharpness not depth. At the rest stop, the same one they went to the first time. Enter the stall. Sit on the closed lid. Open the purse. Take out the knife. Anticipation married to excitement: pain, fear, secret, danger, release. No, don't. Not this time. But I must. Just this once. Just this one last time. It's killing me. He's killing me. The suspense. The tension. Killing me. Killing. The first stab, a few inches, pierces her forearm, halts her breath. She knows she won't scream. Too practiced. The fresh red, its frank declaration. Someone in the next stall. Huge exhale. Right arm shaking. Breathe. Steady. Apply pressure. Careful. First the toilet paper, then the bandage. What? Where are they? Here. The bandage, then another, criss-cross. Stand up. Flush the toilet. Wash hands. Dryer. Survey the stalls. No one. The knife. In the bin. Push down the paper towels. Harder. More. More paper towels. Exit.