A skillet overrun with flaming oil
I am racing against the clock
My glass is on the shelf behind me
I reach for it to exaggerate my commitment as the fluids douse my internal frame
I realize my condiments are missing.
The ingredients are swimming in a pool of Technicolor
I still need the aid of an extra item
The eggplant will do nicely.
I begin dicing with urgency
I feel my flesh beckon to the blade
The blood is attentive and waits for my shock to settle in as the water gushes for comfort
This is the slice that saved my life.