Sway by Wayne H.W Wolfson
"I was sitting in Fausts'...."
"I knew this girl, from the end of the bar. I watched, finger stirring drink in a slow circle."
All stories must begin this way, make something up or it won't work. No, no need to make something up. Just choose.
The mirror was kept spotless. It wasn't my thing, to watch. While I stood there my eyes wandered the circuit of the room.
On the counter next to the sink was her jewelry box. A melancholy value was brought out by the faded wood.
I have never been intentionally cruel, but lately I've been obsessed by the rhythmic possibilities of her sobs.
I open the box. A ribbon, the cross from her confirmation and a rock picked up while bewitched during a summer vacation. Black and in the shape of an elongated egg.
The things we save.
I can't find the ashtray so use the dregs from last nights toasts. Look. Where the night had started, potential and action marked by a murky purple halo. Suspended above my now sainted ash.
Birds flee the trees as the day dies. I now know it was that rock that tattled.
Informed on me.
I look towards the bathroom. What could it say? That we were made of the same stuff?
Better to just get rid of it and not take any chances.
I didn't bother turning the light on, I wanted to take it by surprise. Caught unaware there would be less noise.
I headed to Fausts'. Reaching into my pocket I held the stone. There was a certain comfort to it's cool smoothness.
Winamop.com. More Stories, and Poetry too.
Copyright reserved. Please do not reproduce without consent.