The shark ethic prevails
He sat at the table alone.
He sat at the table alone at the party, surrounded by other people's empty glasses, and he thought about smashing things. He thought the glass would smash nicely. It would crush in his hand. He thought he could take that tall glass there and smash it, swing like a hammer into the table and feel the blood and break, the sharp singing shatter. The rim at the bottom would roll jagged away. No one was talking any more. Everyone was shouting, shouting, shouting out responses to shouts they couldn't hear. He thought he could crush the chair he was sitting in, crumple the legs, and he could grab the table from the end and slam it down so the joints popped and cracked and the thick wood would splinter. He thought he could throw something as hard as he could at the wall and it would hit and explode, broken pieces blowing out everywhere, a flower of glass in the air.
He didn't know why he came to these things. He always thought he'd feel better, feel connected or interested or anyway less alone. And instead it was this. This stupid rage, sitting at an empty table with destructive fantasies and dirty dishes.