Company
by Brian Foley

All of my friends have arrived. I can tell by the sudden absence of space in the room. The Wood quickly takes to the corner. He will not make a sound until he's lit. The Ottoman is having considerable success at turning the Television on. I pull out my salami and share it. Grandfather Clock separates his hourly laughter into seconds. The House takes years to warm up to us. No one notices. When later gets on, I open myself up to the Door as a test of friendship. I tell him my fear of dying with strangers in a public event, like a crash at an air show. He looks over my shoulder at the Chimney, expresses his desire to become Smoke, if just for a night. Fire bellows rhetoric over a Glass of Soapy Water, which no one remembers inviting. When I've had too much wine I take us outside, down to the shore to enchant the stars. I get one alone, give her some silver up front. She laughs when I drop my pants. She calls in the others and they all laugh together. How will you reach me with that she says, pointing, and I think I am closer now than I've ever been to being right.

Brian Foley is a writer living in Boston. His chapbook The Tornado is not a Surrealist was recently published by Greying Ghost Press. Recent work has appeared in Sleeping Wish, Wigleaf, elimae, and Wandering Army. He blogs at www.eunuchsblues.blogspot.com.

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