You dropped one of my drinking glasses. Nothing special, just one of a set. I bruise my knee and tear my tights picking up the pieces. Glass shards cling like teary glitter.
It’s fine, I say.
And then I walk into the dark and I pick the sharp sparkles from my knees and throw them in the grass.
And when we talk again, it is fine.
(You prepare for the plain things to be broken.)
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