It starts with flying glassware, first a plate, then a soup tureen. Sam dove under the table, lit cigarette clamped between his lips, bone dry. Jessica crawled to him on her hands and knees in the sheltered cabin of the tablecloth.
"I didnít mean it," she admitted, when the shaking stopped. She had no idea that throwing one plate would cause an earthquake, but apparently California had not been pleased with their spat.
Sam peeked from under the table. All he could see was porcelain wreckage across the hardwood. From there, he found a broom and started sweeping, when he realized he hadnít answered. "Didnít mean what?"
"Didnít mean for all of them to break." Jessica found a single plate in the cupboard, solitary in its wholeness. "Might as well finish what we started." And she smashed it on the floor.
submitted at 2:13pm
6 July 2010
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