S P H E R E
BY WAYNE H.W WOLFSON

Morning comes and everything is crawling. I roll over onto my side and stare at the wall until it's a pale blue. The color of a face needing a shave.

The cat has found the perfect patch of sun to lay in. And me? I have my coffee and Mozart.

I pick up the phone. It's heavy, panting and always knowing.

“Hello?”

“Co Co . . . Last night I was working. Very quickly I got blocked and put the pen down. I went to this bar. I was still working a little, so I didn’t really notice anyone. There was this sphere. It was the color of faded denim and had the scent of cigarettes and cheap perfume. I brought it home. When I wasn’t looking it slowly unraveled and became a woman. It thought we were going to fuck, but I just wanted that scent one more time. At some point it found the door and floated, up, up and away.”

Now she was crying in her quiet way.

“I, I can’t see you anymore.”

She put the phone down and curled herself up into a little ball.

Seven fine stories by Mr. Wolfson are accessible here.