Broken Glass

I raise my glass so high it makes contact with the ceiling; the glass breaks, but not the ceiling. I am getting things the wrong way around.

On the train, I watch your eyes flicker as you watch the trees swim by; or at least, it seems like they're swimming. They're behind glass, surrounded by blue. We could be at the aquarium and similar things would be visible.

Perhaps, a shark, one year old, swimming, wondering, but not really, maybe hungry, but well-fed; bored. How does it feel to be stared at all day, from all directions?

We are in a restaurant, mid-range, close to autumn but still warm. I am wearing a cardigan, cool evenings. The waiter takes our order and we sip from glasses made of plastic. Not glasses. You go to the bathroom and the waiter stares at me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I am glad when you return.

On the beach a gust of wind compromises the modesty of a woman getting changed into her swimming costume. Some men wolf whistle, say crude things. To regain her dignity, she leaves, walks along the beach, buys an ice-cream, sits far away.

In the restaurant the waiter walks by and drops a plate, it shatters on the floor next to me, shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. I feel his hand on my leg. I jump up, shout, what the fuck do you think you're doing? We leave. You wish you'd punched him. We will not go there again.

Alone, I watch the waves break on the shore. The sea is bright blue today, the sky cloudless. Everything seems in its right place, I hear children playing, shouting, I make the sand around me into shapes. The shapes I make remind me of human bodies. I try and make them more angular. I make a square. It still has soft edges.

To break something, perhaps that's not always a bad thing.