Glass

It is a typically busy morning cluttered with emails, catch-ups, budgets, meetings and working documents, all interrupted by ringing phones and occasional yawns. Work. And as per usual when Amy finally finds five minutes she escapes to the little kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea.

She loves the kitchen. The shadowy, chilly little room with the anti-sceptic, slightly dusty hanging smell; the small window at the end looking down on rubbish bins in an otherwise empty alleyway of bare brick walls and unswept pavement. Others hate it – like to say it's 'poky' and 'cluttered', or 'scummy' and 'depressing' - but for Amy it's simply a place where there's nothing else for it but to ignore the world and to let her mind slide down into it's own calm emptiness, her mug waiting silently with her, teabag primed, the kettle rumbling away. And once the tea is made she likes to punctuate the moment by raising the mug and smelling the golden, sweet, encouraging aroma. Then she takes her first sip, the familiar taste watering her with feelings of home, of teapots on tidy tables, of biscuits and bright faces. She knows full well she's a walking Tetley Tea advert, but she really doesn't care.

Shaking away these refreshing daydreams, ready for action, she turns to go back to the office, but as she does so her arm pushes onto something and there's a brief scraping sound – it's the large glass she'd forgotten was sitting there on the sideboard, slipping off the edge and into silence.

When it smashes it's like some kind of alarm bell to the world, the sound of molecules wrenching apart into their bare selves, a sound so rich and so full of constituent parts it almost tells a story in itself – with a beginning, a middle and finally just a sudden, silent oblivion for an ending.

She sucks in air, and there's clapping and cheering from her co-workers at their desks.

“Are you alright?” Someone asks.

“Need any help?” Another.

“I'm fine...”

She takes a step round, getting the lay of the land, the glass crunching thickly underfoot. The disaster zone extends widely across the kitchen floor - an explosion of shiny debris poured thickly around the point of impact, scattered progressively less so the further her eyes go out. Finally there are just the few isolated shrapnel pieces, some apparently reaching all the way to the carpet.

She searches for the dustpan and brush hidden amongst the brimming tangle of cloths and wipes and kitchen chemicals in the cupboard under the sink. Things quickly begin to slip out as she rummages; she scrambles to secure them, feeling a small victory each time a rescued item stays put. In the end she wins the day; armed with the dustpan and brush she bends down low onto her haunches to begin the task.

At first there is a certain resistance in the handle as she slides the bristles over the laminate flooring; a rough crackling tension, like scratching a blackboard, but when she pushes it onto some actual glass the jangling, tinkling sounds that are produced please her immensely, tickling her insides and catching her by surprise. The tenor and tone of the sounds shifts erratically, like a shaken kaleidoscope, depending on the number, size and shapes of the pieces she touches. It's like sweeping up diamonds, jewels, crystals. She finds herself childishly imagining fairy tale princesses and white witches engaged in alchemy so successful they could afford to leave these priceless by-products for her to just scoop away. The collected pieces slide and bristle together in the dustpan, making her think for some reason of wrinkled and bearded American men in dungarees sieving soil from wooded streams, searching for gold nuggets. The shapes of the pieces also fascinate with their variety and complexity, each revealing its unique nature close up; a practical, hands-on science lesson in the anatomy of a fallen glass, or a glimpse into some fiendishly impossible jigsaw puzzle. The many small ones hide themselves away, almost invisible, only the faintest of sparkles if you are quick enough to catch one. Others are larger, chunky, overbearing –  pure glass meteorites with bold sparkles whooshing in all directions. Then there are the smooth, flat pieces; deceptively cool, their sharp, jagged edges occasionally flashing her with danger signs.

Overall Amy finds to her surprise that the act of sweeping away the glass is far more calming and satisfying than the making of the tea. “I should smash a glass every day”, she jokes to herself when she finishes throwing the last of it away, although of course she knows that it would be far less special if she were to actually do so. You can't force a moment to be special and you can never relive past glories, just like you can't force a person to love you. She sighs, thinking of someone she would rather she hadn't. And with that the moment is over, the glass is firmly in the bin.