She moves her head to the side as if he’s speaking in riddles and she can figure them out by changing angles. Still, she remains unblinking. Everyone imagines screaming, or fighting, but most people go still when they think they’re about to become a corpse.
It’s like practicing for the rest of eternity.
So now they both stare at each other, confused. It’s funny, they may as well be speaking different languages—but they aren’t, are they? The soldier and the housewife are both fluent in the language of violence and it’s the most natural connection in the world even if no one wants to believe it.
“Why are you waiting?” She asks.
Her voice sounds the same, but it isn’t friendly anymore. A newscaster on the radio launching in with a scripted welcome in a sugary tone right before rattling off the latest disasters.
“Surely this is not practical...you are a clever man. You and I have both dealt in this before.”
June rocks back on her feet in an effort to say “don’t worry about it, I won’t be upset, see how relaxed I am” without needing to say too much anymore.
“Look at all those knives you have,” she remarks, as if commenting on the kitchen section’s wares instead of deadly weapons. “I can’t put up much of a fight, of course, so I doubt it will be considered an impressive kill. But that’s not really matters. I know. It’s about the feelings. My handler taught me that.”
She stops rocking. “Well, I suppose it might feel better to do it bare-handed. Ah, yes, I can see that being cathartic.” Still trying to be casual, but her voice is tremulous. “But you are busy. I think that would be a waste of your time. But I am a biased party, no?” A tinkling laugh.
