Instantly seeing what his letting go would cause, Matthew dove forward with outstretched hands. His fingers grazed the bowl's surface.
Flying backward, Greta let go of the bowl and thrust her hands behind her to try and break her fall. However, it was her not her bottom that crashed first, but her head, into the wall behind her.
Her body dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap, legs splayed at an awkward angle.
Matthew, in midair, felt the bowl's cool underside brush his fingertips and he squeezed his hands together. But it was too late.
The base of the object struck the hardwood floor. It shattered with a resonant ring, and shards of glass blasted in every direction.
He closed his eyes as he sailed to the ground and landed in a pile of glass between his wife's unmoving legs.
Then, perfect silence.
He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, grateful at once that his vision had escaped the shrapnel. The first thing he saw was blood. He panicked, and glass crunched beneath his arms as he raised himself up on his elbows. He was aware of many stabs along the undersides of his arms and blood started gushing from his palms.
Then he saw her. He quickly brushed the largest broken pieces away with a folded box. He leaned close to her face, squeezed her cheeks between his bloody fingers. "Greta," he shouted. "Wake up!" He looked from her face to her chest for evidence of life, pressed her stomach, tried to make her breathe. He squeezed her lips between her fingers and put his lips on hers and blew, felt nothing in return. Had he killed her? He let out an agonized groan, how could this be happening when everything was back to the way they had planned?
He crawled up between her legs. He pulled her head to his chest, and with his other hand he searched for her pulse.