She held the knife firmly against her face, pressing the cold carbon steel against her cheekbone. She imagined she could feel the heat from her skin being transferred into the metal, her atoms of slowing while those of the knife accelerated. If she stayed like this for long enough, would their temperatures equalize? Would the knife’s temperature rise while her body cooled, in the tiniest increments, to eventually meet it? If she had a hundred knives pressed against her body, or a thousand, would she freeze to death? How odd, to freeze to death, from the flats of knives.
“Umm, Chef? I know you’re feeling embarrassed, but we can very, very easily airbrush that pimple out in postproduction. I mean, we do it all the time, believe me. So it’s fine if you just move the knife out of the way. Besides, it’s kind of overkill to use such a big knife to hide such a tiny blemish. Do you want me to get Tina to give you some concealer or something?”
She ignored him. She knew that if she moved the knife, the pimple would be in the photograph. Even if it was photoshopped out and no one else knew it had been there there, she would know. She moved the blade so more of the metal was flush against her skin, and she felt her atoms slow, slow, slow.