Broken Glass.

Broken Glass.

“Broken glass in the morning and broken hearts in the evening.” Steven King.

A slip of the hand. It could have been a mistake. But it maybe wasn’t. A tumble of the glass. Wet fingers can slip. But what if that’s not what happened. Down, down, down. Glass hitting the tip of the basin. The sound of shattering sends a message of instant silence. Gravity to blame for the tiny little pieces of broken glass across the basin and upon the tile. Or the blame could be elsewhere? Blaming gravity for this mistake when it may not be at fault.

Six years drinking from the same glass, never once a spill or miss with the liquid. Not a chip or crack until today when it fell. Then he fell. As if it were slow motion and replayed, my mind can visualize the instant when it happened. Unable to stop it from happening; a spectator in my own home, standing within a foot of participating.

So carelessly my arm grazed the tip of the glass sending it over the edge. The glass splintered into a several large pieces and thousands of tiny shards. Sound breaking the calm atmosphere of silence and creating an even bigger silence when it fell. Perhaps it wasn’t careless. My grasping arms reaching for the tumbling glass and connecting with his falling hand.

So very quickly his movements shifted to compensate. Possibly allowing me to be in harms way instead of him. Arms tucked in as his legs shifted weight to shuffle over. Feet scrambling to step aside. Avoiding the broken glass like a dance that mimics the one to avoid conversations. A dance that misses the movements of the hands. The quickness did nothing to cover the mistake. No hands reaching to grab. No words to give a warning.

Slight of the razor. Connection pushes hand away. Blood spills like a light syrup mixing with water upon the floor. Brawny and clumsy hands fumble to grab the open wound. Tiny drops of crimson rain staining the tile. Like a lost navigator frantically gripping an out of control helm. Nothing can stop the outpouring of life.

There’s more stumbling and now slipping in the red watery mess.

I can’t recall a time where he’d ever cut himself. With the skills of surgeon he handled the straight razor. Always exact strokes along the neckline and back up to the jaw. Up, around and down his face. Stiff firm strokes around the base of his chin and around his mouth. As if perfection he could never miss.

And he always hated the way I watched him shave. I always hated how he bitched at me when I did it. Now we both have an answer to the problem.

I wonder what his family will think about this. Or what his mother will say when I have to see her. Maybe I’d tell her at the holidays when she’d remark about the color of my hair. Right now it’s a little red, more like a chocolate brown. The blood in the sink doesn’t seem to matter when you’re looking at all the pieces of red chocolate brown hair that has fallen out. Fallen into the basin splattered with streaks of red and white shaving cream. Noticeably questioning if you’re experiencing premature hair loss as the blood thickens and darkens.

I wonder what police will think when they come and find us this way. Will they know it was an accident? Or will they think I slit his throat because we had a fight. The kind of fight that erupts in the bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth and he’s shaving. An unprecedented fight. The kind that leaves him wide-eyed and spread legged, wearing only a bath towel around his waist as he bleeds out onto the porcelain floor.

It seems like a further imposition to wonder, but I can not help it. Wondering if this is what was supposed to happen. There are many things they will not know when they arrive. Like, there was a tiny scar on his neck where the hole is spread open. It would not be noticeable any more. But that isn’t something they would find helpful. They will not know it was an accident. Or that it was his arm that forced mine to miss the glass. They will make assumptions when they arrive. Looking at the body on the floor in the middle of the glass surrounded by the blood will they think perhaps I pushed him and broken the glass in my haste.

Now that I look at him resting on the floor with his eyes wide open, his long hair disheveled and his hand wrapped loosely around the open wound I can only wonder if there’s another glass in the front pantry. Replaceable. Wondering if being able to replace everything like a broken light bulb would make it any easier? Like words on the tip of the tongue this moment sticks with me and lingers. A slip of the hand and break of the heart. An irreversible mistake that has left me here to wonder about things of no consequence.

The idea came from a line in a book. Not at all sure about it. It’s still very rough. Those are always my favorites. For the moment, please enjoy. More later. m.