What appeared at first to be some kind of performance, mutated into a very private act. A glass smashed in the kitchen, theatrics of course. But then, panic. Hand-washing. Towel-drying. Too much.
Then, a box with broken objects, not the same glass.
A low table polished to within an inch of it’s miserable life.
Watch reflected in the glare of a television.
This continued for some time.