On Breaking Glass

Just Nine Short and Cruel Lines

As I rushed down the stairs from his apartment, I felt I had to make a decisive move. God help me. I wanted to throw my phone and wallet into the river. I wondered whether I should follow them, and which would wash up first. I wanted to burn my clothes. The door to the block of flats slammed shut behind me. Fuck. What had I left behind?

All I have is my good name. Not to others. Standing there in the street, gripping my own thighs in search of keys and wallet, nobody could have named me. Not one of them would even remember my face by the time they returned home to their families. Nobody knows my name, not even the woman who delivers my post. Nobody knows my name, which is why it is good. That is all I have. I am a good person, I told myself, again. I sweated through my shirt as I reached the steps of the church. Had I left my good name behind? Fuck.

Today. At the fountain outside my window, a child howls. Most of the crowd ignore him. I try, but something in his wail, its pitch or depth, suggests to me he is too old to be howling like that. Nothing is broken. I can’t remember howling like that at his age, but perhaps I did. It sounds bad for him, but to me it sounds so good. I wish I could still howl like that. I must have left behind my public howl.