Anthony Burris Green traced one jagged fingernail along the railing. Then, he opened the knife. Shut it. He opened it again.
He shut it. He opened it.
He shut it.
Then, he opened it again.
Just when you thought he was about to shut it again, he did. He shut his knife. It seemed like this time it would stay closed for good, but then, just as he was opening it again in order to shut it again, he opened it.
Once again he shut it. Almost as if his hands had a will of their own, he opened it again. Then, he shut it again. He opened his knife. He shut his knife. He opened his knife, and he shut his knife. He opened his knife, and then he shut his knife. He opened his knife. He shut his knife, and then he opened his knife. Anthony Burgess Green shut his knife for the last time. Then, he opened his knife for the last time.
Then a crow swooped down, stole the knife from him, and shut it. Then the crow dropped the knife in such a way that when it landed comfortably back in Anthony's hand, it shut itself. Anthony stood alone on the Santa Monica Pier. All the tourists had gone home. The other security guard was underneath the pier.
His hand shook.
His knife opened itself.
Nellie woke. Not due to moonlight, but because of her dream. She'd been dreaming of moonlight streaming through her window, and fairies dancing on moonbeams. In her dream, it was the fairies who woke her. In reality, the whiskers of her cat awoke her. No streamlight mooned through her window, only streetlight. The moon was long gone. Nellie scritched the face fur of her cat before rolling over and tumbling the cat onto the other pillow, the one no lover had ever laid his head upon because Nellie only took people allergic to cats as lovers, so they never stayed the night.
Her hand rested on something hard, small, and metal. It was warm to the touch. Body-warm. The heat of her hand matched the heat of the something. In the light of the moonlight that wasn't there, she saw the small pocketknife. She opened it. Then, she closed it. Nellie opened the pocket knife. Then she closed it again. She opened it. She closed it. She opened it, and then she closed it.
Nellie opened the pocket knife. She closed the knife, and she opened it.
"She ain't what you think," whispered Nellie's cat. Nellie turned to Ruffles, whose favorite potato chip was Original Lays, but who would eat Pringles in a pinch.
"The knife?" asked Nellie, who opened the bedroom door and closed the knife.
"The knife, whispered the cat," whispered the cat, who had been imagining this conversation for some time now, and hadn't yet realized she was narrating her actions.
"I want to open the knife," Nellie said, opening the knife. Then she closed the knife. Then, she opened the knife.
The cat hopped off her special lover's pillow, for the cat had taken many lovers and all of them had slept on that pillow.
Nellie closed the knife. She opened the knife. Nellie closed the knife. Finally, she opened the knife. "Suddenly, I want to close the knife," Nellie said as she closed the knife.
The cat butted her head against Nellie shin. Nellie opened the knife. Now in the kitchen, Nellie closed the knife. As she approached the knife block, Nellie opened the knife.
Nellie fed the cat.
