But With Onions

Andrew enjoys chopping onions and I enjoy watching. He has a ritual; fetching a well-rounded yellow onion from the vegetable drawer, slowly removing the dry husk of peel, holding the onion under cool water to lessen the sting before placing it on a wooden cutting board. There are his Sweet Life Cover hands, thick, veined, pale and strong; the knife in his hand as if it were simply another finger. He holds the onion between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and carefully makes almost translucent slices of the onion. He is methodical, gently piercing the onion’s flesh with the tip of the knife before bringing down the entire blade, working it through the onion, hitting the cutting board with a satisfying thunk, then sliding the fresh slice aside. Occasionally he eats a slice of onion, because Andrew also likes the taste.

When Andrew chops onions, he cries. I sit on the counter, absorbing his lean face, the faint scar that runs from his right eyebrow to just above his upper lip, his crooked nose. I see a thin stream of tears falling from his eyes, down his face, quivering on his chin before falling to his shirt or running down his throat, and I feel a stirring between my thighs, faint at first, growing as he cries harder, and harder.