Knife on Butter

Before the butcher touched bone, tendon, cartilage, hooks, scales, steel, he sat across from his wife with a blunt knife and waited for the butter to soften.
Morning occupied the dining table in pieces: bread beneath a cloth, butter in a glass dish, bananas and oranges in a bowl, two cups, two saucers, a pot of coffee sending steam between them. His work shirt hung from the back of a chair. Beside it, a canvas bag held an apron, towel, whetstone, and the knives he had sharpened the night before.
His wife poured the coffee.
“You sharpened them again.”
He followed her eyes to the bag. “They were dull.”
“They were sharp yesterday.”
“Yesterday is why they’re dull today.”
She pushed the bread toward him. He took a slice and drew the butter knife across the dish. The butter resisted.
“See?”
“What?”
“Dull.”
“That one is supposed to be dull.”
He turned the knife in his hand. “What kind of knife doesn’t cut?”
“The kind I trust you with before coffee.”
His cup knocked against the saucer when he laughed.
Outside, a tricycle passed. A broom scratched pavement beyond the gate. The refrigerator hummed, clicked, fell silent.
He tried the butter again. This time it gave beneath the knife. He covered one corner of the bread, then another, filled the holes in the crumb, scraped the excess back toward the center.
“Too much.”
He looked up. “Again?”
“You don’t spread butter. You plaster walls.”
He slid the bread onto her plate.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You were staring.”
“I was judging.”
“Same face.”
She tore off a corner and ate it.
He reached for an orange. His thumb broke the peel. Rind opened beneath his fingers, leaving oil on his knuckles. He separated the fruit and divided the sections between their plates.
His wife took one from his.
“You have your own.”
“Yours tastes better.”
“They came from the same orange.”
“Exactly.”
He stopped arguing.
The clock above the kitchen door moved another minute. Neither looked at it. His coffee cooled. Her bread disappeared. Crumbs collected beside his wrist. She told him the faucet had started dripping again. He said he would look at it tonight. She reminded him he had said that yesterday.
“I was tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“Not now.”
She looked at him.
“No. Not now.”
Her spoon rested against the saucer. His hand remained around the cup. Then she lifted the pot and emptied the last of the coffee into it.
The clock moved again.
He stood. Work shirt. Buttons. Canvas bag. Keys. His wife brushed a crumb from
his collar and crushed it between two fingers.
“At least the animals don’t complain about your butter.”
He kissed her forehead.
“They complain less than you.”
She slapped his arm.
He reached for the doorknob, looked back at her plate, and stole the last piece of orange.
“Thief.”
He ate it at the door.
Then shoes crossed the threshold. The gate clicked. His steps disappeared into the street.
Across the butter dish, the blunt knife held a thin line of morning. Coffee remained in her cup, orange peel curled on a plate, crumbs marked his place.

Hensley is a Filipino poet and fiction writer. His short story “The Ceramicist” was shortlisted for the 2026 Bridport Prize. His literary interests encompass poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction, with particular attention to the intricacies of everyday life and human experience.