He did not drop the glass. It was knocked out of his hand by the edge of the cabinet door as he turned away from the refrigerator.

It was a six ounce glass of the sort once found in hotel and motel bathrooms across the country before the great contagion of disposable plastic cups. They had collected them on their travels, used them every day they were together, and divided them evenly when they broke up. Well, as evenly as possible. She took six, he took five.

One was broken in the original moving out, one had disappeared over the years between subsequent apartments, the one that held his toothbrush shattered on the bathroom floor

when a sparrow flew into the room and panicked, and he broke one while doing the dishes, the craggy pieces sitting on the windowsill for a week before being thrown away in a double paper bag for safety.

Now the last one was flying through the air, catching the sun as it tumbled. It hit the table, but did not break. Instead it rolled with a hollow bell sound toward the far edge. He reached for it, but time and his reflexes were against him.

He watched the glass sail over the edge of the table, dropping out of sight, bound for the hard wood floor. The last to go, taking with it all tangible evidence of their relationship.

Leaning across the table on one foot, poised like a drunken ballet dancer, he wondered what his life would be like after he heard the sound of breaking glass.