Flock

He wrapped the thickness that was his inarticulate hand around the ceramic.  I could hear the friction between his fingers, his strength and aggression seething, his jaw working back and forth to grind out a rhythm that was achingly familiar.  When we had honeymooned at Niagara Falls in 1992 we took the boat ride--you know, the one that putts in under the falls--yeah, we were both just soaked afterward, and we laid down in the shimmering sun, our backs full of dried grass, drinking down chocolate milks and laughing at the tourists.  I remember the way his saliva looked on his white teeth, how soft his lips were then.  It is so close to my mind's eye that the smudge of a human in the kitchen hovers for a minute, a mirage.  That's before he threw the cup at me.  A white bullet smeared out across the room, me, sailing onto the floor, particles fragmented around the fireplace.  I could see a sliver of the diagram on one of them that I picked up slowly.  Outside, and I'll swear to this, were four grizzly bears, all fangs and claws, getting in one of the biggest bar room fights you can imagine.  Pool sticks cracking, queue balls sailing.  I had a decision to make.