Within the hard edges of things something was happening. And yet it seemed such a long way off. Distant eyes reached inside and stilled the body from view.
Outside there was growing agitation as a woman, nervous from the exhaustion of warding off a stranger’s eyes, knocks over the standing pint of a brimming glass. It falls and only the lather remains upon the wooden grained surface of the table. Too late to catch or even to see is the action gone and the glass smashes. Other things move, stop, prepare to move again and change direction. Several times occurrences seem to begin only to turn the other way.
Only the child crawled now underneath the surface of the table, drinking off the last of the liquid giggles to itself. And the vacant and distant smile of the adult looks on but dares not approach.
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