In His Blood

The knife was as familiar to his hand and as innocuous as a pencil, in spite of its razor edge. And yet earlier in the day he had closed his hand on the sharp edge and noticed with surprise that the steel had sliced painfully, if not seriously, into his palm. There had been a flow of blood, which he rinsed off at the sink, and afterward when he again picked up the knife to strip the mill, it felt different to him, almost like a personal possession, and he found himself gripping the wooden handle.