Cold hard steel.
Sharper than a witch’s stare.
Deadlier than nightshade.
The cutthroat razor pauses a fraction away from the tender skin.
Tiny downy hairs rise up as if drawn to the edge of the blade by a static charge.
The knife is held confidently.
No shaking, no tremor as it waits … poised … ready to slice deeply.
Placing the edge of the blade again the soft pink flesh before plunging deep within. Juice erupts, splattering the walls and running down the blade’s handle to stain the delicate white tablecloth.
With a sharp twist of the wrist, the peach is decapitated.