Eve pulls out of his reach and begins to silently clear dishes. As she does, she gathers used cutlery in one hand and drops everything onto a stack of dirty plates. Except, I notice, one serrated knife. It is in her right hand, blade pointed forward, her hand curled around the handle in the same way my hand is gripping the switchblade in my pocket. The dinner knife isn’t enough to kill me, but it could do some damage, especially if she slashed it across the exposed skin of my face. Eve works her way around the table, shuffling dishes to the ever-growing stack, but the knife stays in her hand as she inches her way closer to me.
My heart is already racing from her nearness, adrenaline thrumming through my veins, and then she and the knife are right in front of me. Eve turns to grab a water
