Earlier this week, as I was closing the terrace door, Andrew observed from across the room, “Every time you close that door, I think you’re going to put your hip right through that window.” Each of the tall French doors that open onto the terrace is made up of three large panes of glass. Getting the doors to latch properly takes a bit of effort.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not even touching the glass,” I said. “I’m touching the frame. I think I know how to close my own terrace doors.”
Yesterday, as I closed the terrace doors, I put my hip right through the window. There was a hideous crack and shattering, and huge, wedge-shaped pieces clattered to the ground on both sides of the door. I screamed and froze, waiting to determine if I was okay, to see if I could feel blood trickling from my bare feet or bare arm, and looked to see if my dress was shredded. Luckily, and I’m not sure how, but I was not injured, save for the tiniest of snags in the skirt of my dress.
What a stupid pain. As if we didn’t already have five million things to do before moving back to the US, we now have to figure out how to replace this window. Incidentally, weeks before moving out of our other apartment on Montjuic, Andrew put his feet right through the mirrored top of our coffee table. It’s fitting here, I suppose, to wreak a little havoc—we won’t be leaving this place without some wailing and gnashing of teeth.