Broken glass

Thursday evening. In the kitchen.

I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.

"I just got really mad."

"You know a piece of this is going to end up in my foot, right?" I say, picking up chunks of glass from the counter.

"It broke cleanly in about four pieces," she says. "Maybe this time you'll be fine."


I sweep.

She sweeps.


Next morning. 6:17. I stride across the dark kitchen to flip the light switch.

Sharp intake of breath.

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