I love snowglobes. I love to run my hands over the glass, to feel the cool smoothness of perfection. I love to peer at the innocent scene inside, that perfect little world, that little piece of happy. I love to gingerly pick it up and turn it over, every nerve on end praying I don't loose my grip. I love to quickly set it right, before my luck runs out and I drop it. I love to watch the snow fall, wondering what it's made of, and what it would feel like outside its watered dome.
I have my own snowglobe. I don't touch it much. The ciaos of snow is nice, but it's not worth the risk of shattering the glass. I keep it on my shelf. It's surrounded by other happy nik-knacks and random sentimental pictures. I keep it safe and upright. I keep it from falling.
She has a snowglobe too. I suppose if she could she'd glue it down; though, knowing her, she might shake it often, just for the reaction: just to watch the snow fall down. She likes ciaos. Or, this is possibly more accurate, she likes to pretend there's ciaos. She likes the brief fall of snow, and the instant peace and true calm that comes as it settles. Yes, she likes to shake the globe, she likes to make it snow; but she'd never drop it. Never.
But she doesn't work her own snowglobe. Its shelf isn't in her room. It's called her globe but it's not hers to shake.
And it's not hers to drop.
She stood there for a moment, watching them turn the globe on it's back, watching the snow start to fall. The plastic snow didn't make her smile. The stormy ciaos didn't bring thrill. They've done this before, many a time before, and though she'd shake the globe herself, the vision of them doing so is nauseating, not invigorating.
She watched them plunge her perfect world in snow.
And, in an unspoken agreement, they slowly relaxed their fingers.
It fell slowly to the ground, a moment where things truly stop and go in slow-motion. A moment where, if you were conscious enough, you could reach out and stop it from happening. But you never realize you could have caught it until it's already hit and time is regular once more.
She watched it fall.
She watched perfection break, perfection shatter, perfection flow in a microscopic river.
She saw her globe in pieces, her happiness broken on the floor.
And nothing is ever as captivating when mended with tape.