Love, Disarmed
The woman on the steak knife handle winked at him. She, the knife, was a wedding present from his in-laws, one piece of a Reed & Barton silverware set entitled, Love Disarmed. Each item, from salad fork to sugar spoon displayed the same design: an almost nude coquette, enticing curls pooling around her face, intertwining with voluptuous acanthus leaves. One arm above her head and the other draped at her side, holding the thin drapery that covered her chest. Plenty of half-nude women adorned his home, but she was the first to flirt with him. The settee in the Reception Room had two at either end, carved out of cherry wood with their breasts thrust forward, round stomachs arched, holding up tufted arms. The chandelier in his study had several golden women, flying out from the center globe, arms outstretched and smiling.
“To Reginald, my loving husband!” Helene had just raised her glass to him. “May we have many more anniversaries as joyous as this!”
“To Reginald!” his guests cheered.
Reginald smiled but said nothing. His wife’s adoration grew tiresome since their honeymoon. He did not want Helene to mistake the excitement caused by a flirtatious piece of cutlery for any feelings of newlywed devotion towards her.
Helene’s eyes sparkled in desperation as she attempted to make eye contact from across the long banquet table. The party sipped their champagne and continued their conversations. Reginald looked up only when he was sure Helene was preoccupied with another guest. She looked beautiful tonight. Her blonde curls swept up atop her head in the latest fashion. She told him she chose her off-shoulder champagne-colored dress to match the toast she was going to give. A meaningless gesture.
A servant carrying a large soup tureen walked out of a doorway hidden in the ornate dining room wainscoting. At his left, a business associate was telling him something about the economy. At his right, his wife’s best friend readjusted the pearl bracelet on her wrist. She smiled at Reginald.
It was after the soup was served that he dared look down at his silverware again. The soup spoon did not flirt with him. Instead, it lay dully in his hand. Reginald’s focus went back to the steak knife. In comparison, the woman on the steak knife handle gleamed brighter than all the other pieces in his setting. She smiled and adjusted herself on the bed of silver acanthus. In her movement the thin drapery shifted, revealing the top of her breasts. She looked down, feigning embarrassment, and then laughed.
“Reginald?” Helene's shrill voice darted at him. She leaned forward to see above the candlesticks. “Is your silverware not clean?”
He blushed under his whiskers, shook his head, and waved her off. Turning to his business associate, he attempted to participate in finance talk. Helene sat back down and picked up her champagne glass. She took a sip and then a gulp, finishing the glass. She was offered more and took another full flute of champagne. Her sister-in-law raised her eyebrows and took a dainty spoonful of soup.
Reginald tried to concentrate on the conversation, economics, something about the price of gold? Or was it silver? But his mind only wandered back to his adoring knife. His eyes darted from the knife, back to his soup spoon, and then to his dinner companions, nodding to show that he was listening. As the conversation shifted to politics and Reginald spooned the last of his soup, he dared look down at the knife once more. She pouted as if to say, You are not paying attention to me! Startled by her animated reaction, the spoon missed his mouth. Broth fell down his beard and onto his lap, leaving the spoon crashing into the china soup bowl.
“Reginald! Are you alright?”
He threw his arm out and waved off Helene. Dabbing his beard and shirt with his napkin, Reginald caught a glimpse of the knife. She was in a fit of laughter, writhing and giggling at him.
“You seem to have missed your mark, Reggie.” Helene’s friend whispered and raised a gloved hand a little too close for polite company to Reginald’s face. She wiped away a droplet of soup sitting on his beard.
Helene, ignoring her guests, was now leaning to her right to catch a better glimpse of the intrigue happening several plates down. She could not stand it. Reginald, emboldened by the physical attention being paid by his wife’s friend, stroked the top of the steak knife. The woman wriggled under his index finger. He could feel her breasts rise and fall. His wife’s best friend moved her foot up and down his leg. Momentarily feeling more alive than he had since he got married, he relaxed. Reginald looked down at the steak knife to find she was no longer under his hand. She was in Helene’s hand, above his head, and then in his throat. The woman on the knife handle wiped away the blood that fell on her cheek, smiled, and resumed her pose amongst the acanthus leaves.
***
Amelia Kate Anderson is a writer and astrologer living in Chicago. She has an M.A. in Art History specializing in 19th Century Decorative Arts from the University of Oregon. For the past ten years, she has worked for a variety of museums and cultural institutions, until the universe had different plans for her in 2020. She now spends her time watching classic Hollywood films, studying the stars, and writing horror fiction. You can find her on Instagram, @maincharacterastro, and on Substack for monthly horoscopes, maincharacterastro.substack.com.