Sometimes just the sight of his flaming red hair made me want to strike him. His neediness was suffocating me. The way his cheeks flushed when we walked in the fields. The way, even the tips of his ears blushed when he went on and on about how he longed to make beautiful things.
And that particular morning, it was everything: his sincerity, his thick accent, his hook nose, his pale skin, the fact that we'd been stuck together in that little yellow house for too long - and most of all - his damn red hair.
As he launched into one of his naïve speeches over breakfast, I saw that he was blushing once again. Deep red. As red as the apple he was peeling so fastidiously. As red as his ridiculous hair. Red from the top of his head to his flushed cheeks to the tips of his ears.
I grabbed the knife from his hand and lunged, grabbed hold of his left ear with one hand and sliced with the other.
I looked at the dripping red tip of his ear in my hand.
"Oh my God," I screamed, "Vincent, I'm sorry."
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