The bottle is half empty.
I used to call it a drinking problem.
Solution.
A+B= have a drink.
A popped the balloon. Have a drink.
B knows A is fucking C. Have a drink.
When glass breaks, no one thinks to slide all the slivers, splinters, and big
jagged
points
back into an orderly whole.
It takes less special equipment and effort to sweep the shattered pile into the garbage and forget it ever happened
until you step on a stray, weeks later,
like an invisible stalker poised with every nail and tooth bared to ruin your fucking day.
Better yet the dust and specks that wiggle into the soft wet white parts of your eye, or the fleshiest, itchiest parts of your fingertips.
The safe kind wanders into throats, foreheads, and shoulders in the best of times.
You'll never know in the moment if it's a broken tooth, or a shard minutely less sinister.
And sadly
the least of your problems.
The most being
the bottle is half full.