Life

The sharp edge of the can opener turning in a yawning circle
succinctly sliced through metal with barely a sound. Stopping just
short of completely free, you lifted the lid, bending it back to ninety
degrees. Watching my eyes, you gently pulled my hand to yours and as
you led my finger softly across the exposed lid, I could feel the tear
of my skin. You looked down at the thin line of red on my index finger
and slowly moved it to your lips to taste the life seep out of my body
and into your mouth. Had it been a can of worms, I would have
understood. The significance was lost over the smell of herring.