THE SPECIAL ONE

When there's nowhere left to rampage.

The bull, like most bulls, was a brute.

Bone china appears fragile but is unpredictably strong. One piece, more so than the rest, was especially resilient. Never to be compared to the cheap stuff orphaned at yard sales or cast to the dump, a potter’s field for a community of ingrates, this one was different.

The bull, being a bull, would run, blindly run, chased by demons that only tormented bulls can see, and he would rampage, crashing and thrashing, head down, muscles rippling, churning, hooves pulverizing all the bowls, tea sets, and plates in his wake. His corral, his closet, was endless, and its supply of china was infinite. There was so much to wreck.

It was an excellent pasture for him, all walls, and no door. He would stop from time to time and survey the carnage, the mountains of china he dispatched. He would listen, as the rustling, settling shards of glass, falling fractured stars, gave up their final breath. In the drowsy quiet, his work done, he would paw the ground, release steam, and begin a slow gallop, gather speed, and start again. In the distance, the ground would quake, and the china would rattle. He was on his way, and there was no escape for him or them.

After an especially long rampage, the bull noticed one piece of china had not fallen. Snorting, he walked to it and snorted again. He sniffed, inhaled, and was confused. He circled; this particular piece was singular. He could not put his mind to the puzzle and solve the reason why. He stood, firmly planted, for hours, days really, and he watched it, peering intently into a face of alabaster, its rim circled in gold. It looked like the others, this piece of china, but it did not look like them. It was as simple as that. Inexplicable and confounding.

So, this one he would spare. And there he stands now.

Having met his match.

With the special one.

Not like the others.