Perchance to Dream

He hung up the phone and closed his eyes, shrugging himself free of the conversation like a snake shedding its skin. He gently gathered up the mottled membrane, folded it neatly and placed it on the crowded shelf labelled unrecoverable. Once it was properly stored he rinsed the mug from yesterday’s morning coffee and set it in the drying rack then went over to his desk to write the necessary note. He opened his pad, flipping past embarrassment and previous letters until he found an empty page.

Dear… he wrote, then paused. As the early fog burned off the room became warm and close and the note waited impatiently for an appropriate addressee to whom it could discharge its release but though he searched thoroughly he could find no fresh ones. They were all either worn through from overuse or so old and stale they turned to dust in his fingers. A bemused fly butting against the window made an electric racket hard to ignore. He stood up from the table and with unhurried motions picked up his chair and moved it to the centre of the room.