I threw the book at his head
and almost immediately after
thought it was a bit extreme.
Maybe even out of proportion
to the offense,
but the tome had been thrown,
and although it didn’t hit him,
the action could not be undone.
Indeed, the look on his face,
after he ducked
and the book slammed against
the wall behind him,
was one of shock, hurt, and a growing rage.
And I wished then that I could freeze time
before he had a chance to respond,
point his long index finger at me,
shout words like “crazy” and “out of control,”
threaten to call the police,
rush out of the house without his coat,
then maybe ten minutes later
stomp back into the house,
silently ripping his coat off the hanger
in the closet by the front door
and storm back out,
slamming the door behind him
with a cold finality.
No, I’d freeze time if I could,
pausing the action,
zooming in on his widened eyes,
his jaw slackened in disbelief.
And maybe I should rewind time
and take back the book-throwing,
but it was better than hurling a knife
or a cast-iron frying pan,
and it was just a paperback book,
but it was over 700 pages.