Cutthroat Razor
He found a razor in the basement and it came over him.
While rummaging in some old stuff in a box in the basement, he sees it. He can remember. His grandpa already used it. To shave.
Carefully he takes the knife out of the case. It needs sharpening, he thinks. He takes it upstairs to the kitchen. He grinds it. Patiently. With love. He takes his time until the knife is so sharp that he can split a falling hair in the air. Lengthwise.
He puts the knife in his pocket. He uncorks his best red wine, which he has saved for a special occasion. Barolo, 1982. Let it breathe first. He takes a nap. Dreaming. Fantasizes.
Quarter to 12, just before midnight. He pours himself a glass of the noble red wine. He smokes a cigarette with relish, something he does only very rarely. He plays with the razor. Scratches his fingernail. Scratches his skin. A lonely drop of blood falls on the kitchen floor. Dark red, it bursts on the white tile. Just one. At the stroke of midnight, he walks out.
It’s stronger than he is. He walks strangely excitedly through the streets, looking at people. Then. Suddenly. It’s her. Beautiful long dark hair. Braided into a pigtail. Carefully he approaches from behind. No one takes notice of him. Quietly, barely perceptible, he walks behind her. He acts unconcerned. She…
