What you remember first is the first time she showed your teeth to you. You expected something less than that and it stuck. If you could have touched it, it would smeared a bit on your knuckles like honey does. The first thing they want to know is how she always knew. Well.
All the blades had been painted to match the handle. That was the first clue. She had pictured it being windowless but it was even worse than that. Pitch-black and tight like a chrysalis, superfluous in cruelty and something like a metaphor stuck to her tongue which fell not declaring anything after all. The first time passivity took over, her jaw shut tight on instinct but she had practiced relaxing it so it would first open, then pop. It would fall back into its natural stasis: that little half grin in which she bit her tongue to stop the grating and then fell into its final full relaxed half smile. The first time she showed her teeth to you, you obliged.