‘You’re not angry then?’
‘Oh no, Jeremy, I’m not angry. We never really had a future, did we.’
Her voice was almost steady, the empty martini glass quite still in her hand.
‘Thank God for that.’
The glass she held was, oddly enough, the one with the crack in it.
He introduced her to Rachel, who smiled a little nervously.
Her teeth were distinctly crooked. Didn’t everybody have orthodontistry these days?
‘Hi Rachel.’
‘Oh hello Sarah-Jane. I’ve been longing to meet you.’
‘Really?’
Jeremy was staring out the window at the crowd down at the pool.
Sarah-Jane, smiling quizzically, found herself saying:
‘Oh, but whatever happened to your teeth?’
‘What?’
And as she said again ‘your teeth’, Sarah-Jane felt her hand curl slowly across the top of the glass. The thing cracked and splintered, shards of glass digging swiftly into Sarah-Jane’s palm, blood running along her arm, dripping down her soft apricot dress and disappearing into the pattern of the Persian rug. Without a word she turned around and walked out of the room, her head in the air, her hand still holding a broad fragment of the glass.
Time stood still, people stared, nobody spoke.
Jeremy moved closer to Rachel.
‘Oh,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I think she really was angry.’
END
birdswords 
the image of the woman walking out over the persian rug holding onto only the glass stem, with blood dripping as she went. That is my favourite part. It would take much rage to actually smash the glass that way. Yes, I think she was angry.
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YEP, she was pretty cross. I have seen it done…Thank you for your comment, Deborah.
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So much said in so few words. The immediate zeroing in on the physical flaw captures an elegant viciousness…and then followed by self harming. Love it.
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