The Vase

Word Count: 236

My knuckle-white grip on the tabletop couldn't satisfy the boiling blood pumping through my ears. I couldn't think. Muscles contracted and the table lifted from the floor. An in, two inch, then SLAM!

Her mouth stopped moving, half open, and her eyes, wide with shock, flitted from me to the rocking vase.

The pounding filled my ears, hot blood clouded my eyes, my muscles refused to let go even though my brain new what was about to happen.

She didn't try to catch it. She was pinned to the counter by the flood of my released anger. The vase twirled acrobatically toward the floor between us.

The sound of glass shattering on the floor was unable to penetrate the roar of my own blood, but the tinkling of of the tiny fragments as they came to rest doused my rage like a soft spring rain. My eyes cleared as the blood rushed to my cheeks, instead.

She stared, eyes still wide, mouth still open, at the wreckage that lay between us. Then the storm seemed to settle upon her and her eyes shrunk into dark slits, her lips tightened has if preparing for the hard words they were about to say.

The gentle rain that washed away my fury was replaced with the cold wind of her words.

"Now look what you've done!"

She left me to pick up the pieces, shame-faced and humbled.