I Had My Reasons

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,

silencing him,

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.