Did it even matter anymore who hit first when the violence was a senseless as it was ineffective? No, not ineffective-Mutual. Shared. In the end she wasn't any better off, and now, they had one less bottle of wine. She had one less bottle of wine. It really was his fault; he should have known better.
It was his fault, really. He should have known better. "You wouldn't dare." Had stupider words ever been spoken? Any indecisiveness left in her shattered with the glass against the floor the moment he had spoken. For a moment, she seemed so startled herself that he could laugh, but her surprise quickly steeled itself into harsh indignation.
Wordlessly, he picked up his own glass, and not breaking eye contact, he dropped it. It smashed with a satisfying, if brief, symphony of cracks.
"Hey!" she turned her eyes back to him, livid, "I have to clean that up now!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, did my juvenile little temper tantrum somehow inconvenience you?"
"I swear, I-" Quickly, she lifted a plate holding it above her head, "If you don't apologize, I'll drop it!"
"Then drop it."
She did. Less satisfyingly, the plate fell with a thunk, only chipping against the floor.
"No, here; more like this." Lifting the offending piece above his head, he brought it down hard, scatting the porcelain into a constellation of fragments. "Try again."
Burning, she grabbed the closest thing within reach, which just happened to be another stemmed glass. Letting it fall to the floor, she kept her hands in the air, gesturing out, "There! Is that better? Is that good enough for you, you asshole?"
"Ehh," he clicked his tongue, doing his damndest to be as infuriating as possible. "More of a break than a shatter. If you're going to ruin my things, at least have the decency to do it well. Observe-" he broke another, smaller, dish.
"Fuck off! You have a height advantage!"
"Language. Besides, it's a bad craftsman who blames his tools. At this point, I'm willing to bet you can't."
"You- I am not-" Entirely too easily baited, she only hesitated a moment. Ready to damn them both at this point, she grabbed the nearest bottle of wine. Lifting the bottle behind her head, she was only marginally aware of him being there at all.
"Wait!" He held his hands out. Did he really think he could stop her now? "Maybe you're onto something!" And then he was catching her around her thighs, lifting her up. The side of her leg pressed to his shoulder, and she wobbled a bit, catching herself. "Alright, now go!"
Holding onto the bottle she was only moments ago threatening to obliterate, she looked down at him, at them, making such an obscene show of impropriety she hoped an afterlife didn't exist just so that no one else had to witness it. And then she laughed.
She laughed, "I- I changed my mind. I don't want to anymore."
"What do you mean you don't want to?" Unable to look at her face, he simply tilted his head upwards.
"Seems like a waste of wine, yeah?"
"Of course it is. Wine is one of the few things meant to be wasted."
"I don't know. Hardly seems worth it anymore if it isn't going to piss you off."
"At this point, it would be more distressing if you didn't."
"You're only hurting yourself here."
"I didn't know dropping things required so much thought."
"Alright. Here; you ready?"
"I was born ready."
Hoisting the bottle over her head again, this time she let it fall the impressive length to the floor. Both of them watched it, the glass breaking marvelously into small bits that littered the floor. The cherry red wine exploded like a firework, making a crime scene of the already dismal floor. Grabbing onto his shoulders, she let him lower her onto the table.
She tried to hop down, among the carnage, but he stopped her with a quick hand, "Better stay up there. I don't know if you know this, but there's some glass on our floor."
"Only some?" Looking down, she surveyed with equal parts pride and dread the menagerie of incomplete pieces, a mosaic in honor of madness. Folie a deux, the artform. The cuffs of his pants were thoroughly stained, and she wondered abscently if she'd be able to wash it out. Part of her hoped not. It would serve him right. But then he was kissing her and she couldn't be mad, couldn't remain angry; it was all so ridiculous.
And she was beautiful, surrounded by debris and bad decisions. Her arms sagged with the tiredness only a good and lethal outburst can bring, and he'd be lying if he denied how incredibly gorgeous she looked, weapon in hand, even if said weapon is only a chipped plate. He kissed her, and she leaned into him, holding onto his shoulders, her hands tugging him closer. He touched her knees, the stained fabric of her dress, her deceptively strong legs, which she was now pressing against him.
"God, I love you." The words were as much a part of the scene as the spilled wine and shattered ceramic. He was all tied up in the mess too, irrevocably and unaccountably undone by her. He kissed her lips and she kissed him back, kindly allowing his destruction.