Marching, marching in the streets
“How could you possibly understand how I feel?” I asked, incredulous. For a moment I considered yelling at Levi, then admitted, “Then again, I can’t really feel anything. Except when I do this.” I pointed to the bandaged cut on my arm.
The nearly empty glass dropped from my hand. I felt my grip loosen and gasped, but time seemed to inch forward at a crawl. The edge tilted towards the floor, gravity’s inexorable grip drawing the last inch of wine one drop at a time into the gray shag carpet. The fabric absorbed the impact of the glass, rolling it under the table without shattering it, leaving a red stain, like blood, behind it.