Unsorted Things
Unsorted Things
He dropped his glass, and she started to cry. I know because I was there.
He dropped his glass, or maybe he threw it to the ground, I can’t really remember. But in any case, it made her cry. That was the first time I saw her cry, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It’s become something of the norm now. The default.
He threw his glass, she cried, he shuffled yesterday’s newspaper frantically, she cried, and cowered toward the stained refrigerator. He took six steps backward and then leapt ten forward, a compressed spring, his arms and legs flailing wildly. She shrieked, her face the white of the worn counter. He relaxed some, at least his feet did, his arms still wind-milled about. The salt shaker fell to the ground, the newspaper hadn’t yet settled, still fluttering down. She fell closer and closer to the floor as the papers did, holding a dish towel in her left hand. Her right hand held what was left of the past nine years. He kicked the oven and it left a dent. She loosened the clasp on her right hand, tightened it on her left.
He knocked over the salt, she held what was left, and I watched. It all fades now, it flutters toward the ground and comes back next week, and she drops the dish towel, and the salt hits the ground, and it doesn’t land upright, and the papers settle, and I remember less and less.
4 March 2016
He dropped his glass, and she started to cry. I know because I was there.
He dropped his glass, or maybe he threw it to the ground, I can’t really remember. But in any case, it made her cry. That was the first time I saw her cry, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It’s become something of the norm now. The default.
He threw his glass, she cried, he shuffled yesterday’s newspaper frantically, she cried, and cowered toward the stained refrigerator. He took six steps backward and then leapt ten forward, a compressed spring, his arms and legs flailing wildly. She shrieked, her face the white of the worn counter. He relaxed some, at least his feet did, his arms still wind-milled about. The salt shaker fell to the ground, the newspaper hadn’t yet settled, still fluttering down. She fell closer and closer to the floor as the papers did, holding a dish towel in her left hand. Her right hand held what was left of the past nine years. He kicked the oven and it left a dent. She loosened the clasp on her right hand, tightened it on her left.
He knocked over the salt, she held what was left, and I watched. It all fades now, it flutters toward the ground and comes back next week, and she drops the dish towel, and the salt hits the ground, and it doesn’t land upright, and the papers settle, and I remember less and less.
4 March 2016