Shatter
The shattering of glass woke her up to her surroundings. She stared down at the broken pieces, glinting under the stark kitchen lights. Her feet were bare; she felt the grimy linoleum’s chill against her sole. How then, to step carefully around the pieces of glass that glared up at her, transparent and sharp, glinting with malice?
With slightly imperfect balance that sent her hip crashing into the kitchen table, she managed to get her knees on a chair. The glass seemed to have spread out all through out the kitchen, and as such, she made her way carefully from one chair to the chair, narrowly avoiding toppling over.
When she had climbed onto the chair nearest the fridge, she grabbed a hold of the dustpan and broom that leaned up against its side, and set to work.
She was alone, and the pieces were so many.
Fortunate, she thought, at least no one can step on them and get hurt.
She cleaned up a few of the fragments that littered the outer edge of the room, and carefully she made her way inward, towards the heart of the kitchen, where the table stood, where she had inadvertently knocked over the glass cup.
There was a knock on the door, and yet she had been expecting that, so she did not look up from her work. Slowly she gathered the pieces of glass that shined in such a way that they made her think of stardust. She imagined she was a goddess, and it was her job to collect stardust, floating among the heavenly bodies, carefree, innocent, hope in her heart and love upon her lips.
There was another knock on the door, louder, and this one accompanied with a shout. Her cell phone was turned on silent, and yet she was sure she was getting called. A quick glance over towards the counter proved her right; she could see the phone’s screen flashing.
The knocking grew more insistent, the shouting louder, but for all the notice she took of this, she might not have heard it at all. Her focus was on the floor, on the tiny specks of fragmented glass that threatened to cut into her bare flesh.
She had finally reached the spot where the glass had come in contact with the floor. A hundred thousand little pieces lay in a perfect circle. Within a couple of sweeps, every last piece was laying in the dustbin.
She still took small careful steps towards the counter, in case there was a few renegade pieces she had not found, but she ran into nothing. She afforded her cell phone one more glance- it stopped flashing as soon as she turned to it, and a small display showed that she had six missed calls.
She walked into the bathroom, one hand carefully holding on to the dustbin, the other casually flicking on the light. A cozy bathroom came into view; toilet, sink and tub all sat next to each other; the cabinets were filled to the brim with Axe, an assortment of razors, shampoo, and hair styling products.
Carefully, she poured the contents of the dustbin into the garbage; over some tissue, an open condom wrapper, and last night’s half eaten turkey sub.
The knocking on the door had turned into a full on ceaseless pounding. Every couple of seconds a yell could be heard through the door, accompanied with what sounded to be kicks aimed at the door.
She quietly closed the bathroom door to drown out the noise, and locked it behind her. She slid down onto the floor, her back against the wall opposite the sink. She closed her eyes and she was gone.
Gone to the Bowery, in the heart of NYC’s SoHo district, smoking a cigarette and window shopping, pausing to check out the latest fashions at the trendiest boutiques, share a laugh with the cute guy at the corner café that always made her coffee just right, or simply to sit down and enjoy the feeling of life that flowed from the gravel up into her veins. Inhaling, exhaling the scent of heat and swagger and gasoline fumes; her favorite place in the world. Just to get lost in.
Just to get lost in it again. She shut her eyes tight. She was there. That morning she had woken up next to the scent of Axe deodorant and Calvin Klein and musk. Tonight, she was wherever she wanted to be.
London, she thought, I’ll get lost in London.
London, she calculated, couldn’t be any more expensive than the city. She had some money. She could take a cheap flight there, live in a motel until she found a job. But first she would go to the Bowery and say good-bye to her city.
Shakily, she stood up, fully aware that she was back in her bathroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and to her surprise, she saw tear-stains running down her cheeks. Her eyes were blotchy, her nose beet red, and her hair a horrible mess. And so she smiled. In a year, none of this would matter.
Her eyes caught the bright pink color of her pill case. She opened it up. In a week she would have her period, if she continued taking them. She looked down into the trash can, where the gold condom wrapper seemed to bore into her eyes with intensity.
She let the bright pink case fall on top of it, burying it deeper into the mass of broken glass pieces. Tomorrow she would think of leaving for the city.
She lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the tub. The furious poundings on the door finally let up, and she didn’t check her phone again for the night. She fell asleep there, on the bathroom floor, and dreamt on floral prints and charmant sandals, of soft serve ice cream and of running down St. Marks at night, alive with hope, full of promise, as she smiled for herself, for the cameras, for whoever loved to twirl dizzily under oak trees in the park with heat on their backs, and stolen kisses with blackberry stained lips as youth seemed to stretch on forever in the search of love.