I wanted to tell him how much I loved him and how badly I wanted him at that moment.
But I was silent. I witnessed, as if in a dream, his inner conflict. I could see that he was wondering whether I'd reject him again, that he was thinking about his fear of losing me, and about the hard words he had heard at other, similar times—because we all have such experiences, and they leave scars.
His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.
I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table. "It's going to fall," he said.
"Exactly. I want you to tip it over the edge."
"Break the glass?"
Yes, break the glass. A simple gesture, but one that brings up fears we can't really understand. What's wrong with breaking an inexpensive glass, when everyone has done so unintentionally at some time in their life?
"Break the glass?" he repeated. "Why?"
"Well, I could give you lots of reasons," I answered. "But actually, just to break it."
"For you?
"No, of course not."
He eyed the glass on the edge of the table—worried that it might fall.
It's a rite of passage, I wanted to say. It's something prohibited. Glasses are not purposely broken. In a restaurant or in our home, we're careful not to place glasses by the edge of a table. Our universe requires that we avoid letting glasses fall to the floor.
But when we break them by accident, we realize that it's not very serious. The waiter says, "It's nothing," and when has anyone been charged for a broken glass?
Breaking glasses is part of life and does no damage to us, to the restaurant, or to anyone else. I bumped the table. The glass shook but didn't fall.
"Careful!" he said, instinctively.
"Break the glass," I insisted.
Break the glass, I thought to myself, because it's a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that I have broken things within myself that were much more important than a glass, and I'm happy I did.
Resolve your own internal battle, and break the glass.
Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passions of childhood are impossible, that we should not flee from priests, that people cannot perform miracles, and that no one leaves on a journey without knowing where they are going.
Break the glass, please—and free us from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for every thing, from doing only what others approve of.
"Break the glass," I said again.
He stared at me. Then, slowly, he slid his hand along the tablecloth to the glass. And with a sudden movement, he pushed it to the floor.
The sound of the breaking glass caught the waiter's attention. Rather than apologize for having broken the glass, he looked at me, smiling—and I smiled back.
"Doesn't matter," shouted the waiter.
But I was silent. I witnessed, as if in a dream, his inner conflict. I could see that he was wondering whether I'd reject him again, that he was thinking about his fear of losing me, and about the hard words he had heard at other, similar times—because we all have such experiences, and they leave scars.
His eyes gleamed. He was ready to surmount any barrier.
I took one of my hands from his and placed my glass of wine at the edge of the table. "It's going to fall," he said.
"Exactly. I want you to tip it over the edge."
"Break the glass?"
Yes, break the glass. A simple gesture, but one that brings up fears we can't really understand. What's wrong with breaking an inexpensive glass, when everyone has done so unintentionally at some time in their life?
"Break the glass?" he repeated. "Why?"
"Well, I could give you lots of reasons," I answered. "But actually, just to break it."
"For you?
"No, of course not."
He eyed the glass on the edge of the table—worried that it might fall.
It's a rite of passage, I wanted to say. It's something prohibited. Glasses are not purposely broken. In a restaurant or in our home, we're careful not to place glasses by the edge of a table. Our universe requires that we avoid letting glasses fall to the floor.
But when we break them by accident, we realize that it's not very serious. The waiter says, "It's nothing," and when has anyone been charged for a broken glass?
Breaking glasses is part of life and does no damage to us, to the restaurant, or to anyone else. I bumped the table. The glass shook but didn't fall.
"Careful!" he said, instinctively.
"Break the glass," I insisted.
Break the glass, I thought to myself, because it's a symbolic gesture. Try to understand that I have broken things within myself that were much more important than a glass, and I'm happy I did.
Resolve your own internal battle, and break the glass.
Our parents taught us to be careful with glasses and with our bodies. They taught us that the passions of childhood are impossible, that we should not flee from priests, that people cannot perform miracles, and that no one leaves on a journey without knowing where they are going.
Break the glass, please—and free us from all these damned rules, from needing to find an explanation for every thing, from doing only what others approve of.
"Break the glass," I said again.
He stared at me. Then, slowly, he slid his hand along the tablecloth to the glass. And with a sudden movement, he pushed it to the floor.
The sound of the breaking glass caught the waiter's attention. Rather than apologize for having broken the glass, he looked at me, smiling—and I smiled back.
"Doesn't matter," shouted the waiter.
"By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept"
by Paulo Coelho
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