Breaking the Rules

My hands rest on the top plate.

"Play fast. May the better player win," the Greek Restaurant owner says while the waiters take bets.

"GO!" The headwaiter shouts.

White porcelain plates crash on the floor.

"The woman who breaks the most plates within ten minutes stays with Jim," Jenny had suggested. She had let me into her Victorian house when I showed up at her door that night.

I looked at her cheap figure. Her dyed hair sparkled more than her pink robe. "You're mad!" I declared.

"If he can't make up his mind, we'll do it for him," she said.

"Isn't breaking plates supposed to bring good luck?" I asked.

"Exactly."

A desperate woman will do anything. I agreed.

It is eight o'clock on a Saturday morning and the restaurant is closed to the public but is filled with friends and family. There are only two tables left and three lines of chairs set along the white walls between the pillars. My table is covered with stacks of plates.

I throw a plate onto the floor, then one more. Quick!

My family starts cheering rhythmically: "Laura! Laura!" They don't know I saw them betting on me with Jenny's father. I have the right genes for throwing. My parents used to throw objects whenever they fought. Screams and the sharp noises of broken dishes used to fill the house, while pieces of ceramics rolled all over the floor. Yet, look! They have stayed together while Jim and I have grown distant.

"Laura! Laura!" they shout when I break two plates at a time. Jenny's family may be louder, but mine has quality. They are choral singers.

I hurl a plate against the wall with my right hand, while I search for the next plate with my left.

Damn, there was no noise. No time to check. Maybe it hit Jim? He'll think I did it on purpose. He believes we do things either deliberately or Freudianly. Sure, he is a psychologist. That's how he met Jenny. She was his patient for heaven's sake!

The piles are still as tall as I am, and my height is perfect for Jim. When we dance or make love our bodies entangle in harmony.

My hands are quick though I have never practiced breaking. I wish I had always thrown plates while quarreling. I wish I had screamed at him sometimes. I seize a plate and crash it onto the floor shouting: "Uh-Ha Jim!"

The day had come when he told me, "I love you, too. You're great for a woman of forty." He had found me in our bedroom, pale and miserable by the telephone extension.

"Jenny will be forty-two one day," I said.

"She is a good sport," Jim said. I already knew her favorite pastime was gambling.

"I am too," I cried.

"No, you aren't." He frowned.

"I'll prove it to you," I said, leaving the house to look for her.

Hell if I don't break all these plates. Jim pays!

Good coordination and speed are required. I am faster. I know I am. However, I must concentrate. How many plates can I break in ten minutes? An endless, countless number! I think about the prize and shudder.

Oh, let fun rule for once. I'll throw plates at home too. If we will still share a home.

I hear her plates breaking. One, two...many.

My arms move like a helicopter rotor.

He actually threw flowers all over the garden from a helicopter on our tenth anniversary. She probably wants his sweetness, but it's a lost battle. I want it too.

How much time is left? I am on my fifth pile. Am I faster? I won't waste time spying on Jenny. I have been doing that already during what she calls "a love affair" and I call "his 40s crisis." Nothing else explains why a man sleeps with a vulgar blonde-haired woman of twenty-five.

I must have broken a hundred. If Jenny broke more, so be it. She can have the idiot. He will tell her she is clumsy when she drops a plate in front of his colleagues. She can have all those joyous dinner parties. Do I really want him?

Crash!

I am sure her poker face will not change if I break this plate right on her bony body. I almost throw it at her but instead, I drop it on the floor. Honest game, good sport. My hands are tired. It's still the fifth pile. My arms betray me. I hear her breaking plates efficiently.

One more. I must!

"STOP!" the headwaiter shouts.

I land on a chair while the penguin-like waiters count the unbroken plates. "Laura broke 199, Jenny 215," the headwaiter finally announces.

"Yeahhhh!" I hear Jenny's family cheer. Her family applauds while mine is appalled.

When I raise my head, I see her standing in front of me. I get up too, maintaining my elegance.

"Congratulations," I tell her and my voice trails off. There are golden sparks in her brown eyes.

"Keep the old man," she tells me. "I just wanted to WIN."

I laugh and walk out on him, on her, on the shattered plates.

Avital Gad-Cykman