Wicho throws a chopping knife at the stool and smiles his almost menacing country boy smile with the sweetness of his brown eyes and the crooked front teeth. Now we know what happened to the other knife with the bent tip, the one we had to throw away. Wicho plays with knives.
Something was bothering him this morning. His hair which is normally combed back into like rolling hillsides of gelled black bungees had a conspicuous horn in the back, a fucked cactus sticking out of the confused region of his head. I think he lacked sleep; he works too hard.
It seemed that I had done something to offend him. But it was like he couldn’t find the words to tell me what was wrong. Perhaps a single word was lacking, the one that fits this gesture. He threw the knife onto the stool and it stuck in there and he looked at me with all the misunderstanding laid bare. Then he pulled the knife out of the stool and continued chopping the vegetables for the quesadillas.
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