A story about the chives you’re here to chop.
I got out of the way. He demonstrated. I’d been slicing those wispy green threads too wide, like shrunken penne noodles when they should have been shaped like tiny ant-sized hula hoops. And I’d been forcing the knife down too bluntly, bruising the edges of each verdant little ring. His blade bobbed up and down, buoyed on air, with enough graceful cadence not to necessitate pressure. “See the difference?” he asked, and I nodded. But something in me said silently, “I see, but I don’t care. I love that you care, and I wish that I cared, but I do. not. care. how the chives are sliced.”
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