Love Fragile as Blown Glass
You sigh — the sound of love breaking
Dinner at a hole-in-the-wall Italian Restaurant, checkered plastic table cover, flickering candlelight, greasy pizza.
Another argument jackhammers our conversation into rubble. You gasp, the sound of love breaking.
We settle for silence, sipping cheap Chardonnay and glancing from chipped plates to our open wounds.
We bundle in winter coats, carefully tread on ice and snow, window-shopping along a row of small boutiques, afraid of words.
You stop and examine a black beret and a flouncy bohemian dress, perhaps remembering our rebellious years together at Berkley. We believed love was worth fighting for.
The ethereal melody of a saxophone drifts into the night air from a local bar. It sounds fragile, like blown glass. We hold hands, trying to repair the cracks.
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