Saturday John and I ventured out to a dead mall smack in the middle of tourist town, seeking entertainment, air conditioning, and a Black Market Minerals - though not necessarily in that order.
Dead malls are fascinating, aren't they? This one had maybe 30% occupancy, which meant you'd have to walk past seven or eight empty, boarded over storefronts to get to the lone Claire's or Gift Mart on the other side. And yet the mall itself was gorgeous - in such pristine condition, you'd swear they wrapped construction last week and not 10 years ago.
Anyway, when I stopped for a restroom break John wandered into one of those horrendously tacky tourist shops. You know, the ones that sell cheap fairy statues alongside Ninja throwing stars? Yeah. Those.
I found him a few minutes later chatting with the shop owner, a lovely older British lady, over an open knife case.
Now, despite the fact that John can sew better than I can, decorate a mean cake, and match duvet colors better than most designers, there are still times when I'm reminded that he is, after all, still a guy. This was one of those times. And given the choice, I suppose I'd rather he be admiring blades than cheap fairy statues anyway. So, you know, there's that.
When he saw me, John waved me over and asked the lady to show me "that one knife." I then had what I think was a switch blade handed to me.
John grinned impishly. "Now, push the button."
Ok, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "later, as Jen was having her finger re-attached in the ER..." Which, I must admit, would be nicely dramatic and somewhat hilarious (for you) at the same time. Fortunately, however, none of my blood was spilled that fateful evening.
None of MY blood.
So, now that I've both ruined the story and dropped some juicy foreshadowing, let's get back to it.
The switchblade-which-might-not-have-been-a-switchblade startled the heck out of me, but the nice British lady assured me you "only" needed a concealed weapon's permit to carry one. It also had handy sandpaper lining the sides, so you wouldn't lose your grip if your hands were wet. WITH BLOOD. Mwuahahahaaaa!!
Ok, so maybe she didn't say that last part.
Anyway, it was as the nice British lady was showing us another blade - one that was "spring-assisted" and therefore still NOT technically a switchblade - that the trouble began. As she was clicking it closed in the case, she "hmphed" slightly and looked at her finger.
You all know where this is going.
She then removed another knife and began showing us that one, talking about the features and whatnot. (Btw, I love that knives have "features," but they never include "reeeeally pointy!!")
As the nice British lady went to close this second knife, she did a lovely dramatic flourish. I say "lovely" because it was a large, graceful arc. I say "dramatic" because at the apex of that graceful arc huge droplets of extremely dramatic blood rained down all over the glass counter top between us.
I'm talking droplets, people. When they hit the glass they made a sound.
a) John tends to faint at the sight of blood.
b) HOLY KITTENS THAT'S A LOT OF BLOOD.
The three of us stared at the counter in stunned silence for approximately .86 seconds, because that's how long it took me to realize what had just happened and what exactly the red raindrops were. I then gasped, backed into John, and expressed my concern for NBL's well-being with a courteous, "Holy CRAP!!"
Mental Note: In the future, try not to knock into someone who gets light-headed at the sight of blood.
John and I later agreed that if either of *us* had just sliced open a finger and rained blood down from on high, we'd probably take a wee break from the sales floor. You know, sit down a spell...maybe get a drink...or a bandage...
Not nice British lady, though. Nope. She just mopped up the counter with a tissue, wrapped her finger in the same tissue, and then assured us she did this all the time. She even pointed out - as the tissue rapidly soaked from white to red - that she hadn't felt the cut at all because the knife was so sharp. Yes, she was using her injury as a selling point. Talk about dedication! "See how clean this cut is? You won't get that with just any knife!"
In the end, John emerged victoriously conscious - if substantially paler - and the owner of (yes, really) a new knife. Not that knife, mind you - a different one. One that does NOT snap open, or have "spring-assists," or any other sudden moving parts. It's really just an emergency tool for the car: it has the window breaker and seatbelt cutter on it, in case we're ever in an accident.
Still, want to know the real reason John bought it? I mean, besides feeling guilty over nice British lady's blood loss?
It's bright anodized orange, so it matches our car.
And *that's* why I love my husband.
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