Last night the knife was water and I was the blade

I'm holding a knife made of river water. The edge is just where the surface tension breaks. A chef I've sharpened for years sets down his stone and says 'same time next week' — and I look down and I'm the one getting thinner, all my grit worn off onto something that will never thank me for it. Woke up with my hands dry, no burn marks, and still couldn't shake it.