Watching the Fireworks
Copyright 2011 Patrick O'Duffy
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Smash and the drawing room’s regency antique mirror (it was a wedding present from her mother and she really didn’t think a lot of him) breaks into a shower of silver-backed glass. Falls, falls, falls, and if you had good eyes (maybe a dozen good eyes), you could see it all in the chunks of mirror in the .86 of a second before they hit the ground. You could use that eagle eye, that freezeframe vision to pull out the biggest pieces, snapshots on display amongst the spray of micro-shards and slivers, find the images frozen for an instant inside.
One the pre-Raphaelite prints on the wall in an artfully constructed crooked line bent at the most appropriate angle, a selection of the full set that was another wedding present, this one from his brother. Everyone lined up for the photos at the reception and talked turkey over drinks, champagne, beer, whiskey whiskey whiskey. Everyone felt it necessary to confide in everybody that he was shifty and from a not-overly-respectable family, she had a bad history of mood swings and everyone knew she drank too much and yes, yes, of course darling, darling, they were just perfect for each other.