At this moment, a shard of glass inhabits my toe. I had dropped a glass of water onto the tile in the bathroom Monday morning. Here it shattered into a hundred thousand pieces. 99,999 pieces were swept up and deposited in the trash. The last piece stealthily lodged itself into my toe, nearly a week later as I tidied my apartment before my book club arrived.
I am always surprised how stealthy glass can be. These tiny shards, you don't even notice them slip under your skin. You know, there isn't even any blood. You can run your finger over and over the spot where the glass is lodged and never even feel it until you put your foot back on the ground. It seems illogical behaviour for a substance that is so hard and sharp.
Sometimes people wonder when I am going to start up mosaics again and I don't want to do them anymore. Ingrid has a theory: I don't want to do them because that was part of my old life. I like that theory; I think it is mostly true. I had long, long hours to fill while my husband watched every football game, hockey game, baseball and basketball game. That was when he wasn't mudding or playing Counterstrike, talking to people in the game instead of me. Or doing a fantasy sports draft.
But now I have this shard of glass in my toe and it reminds me how once I almost always had glass stuck somewhere in my foot, or even, feet. You can try to clean up glass all you want, but always a renegade sliver will hide somewhere, a grout line in the kitchen say, or a space between the floor boards. And, I think it is a lot simpler than all that. I just don't fucking like glass in my toe, dudes.