Wormed (March 26, 2009. New Moon. Issue 2)

The two men greeted me in my garage.  The first one, tall and thin, patted my shoulder and said “Hello, Pauly.”  It was such a wholesome pat that I didn’t question being called Pauly.  The second man, short and a bit plump, hugged me and said “It’s been too long.”  He smelled like a cup of Earl Grey Tea with plum sauce.

“You must be really dedicated," the tall guy said, "going to work on a Sunday morning.”  He tapped my briefcase, which I wore around my shoulder like a purse.  “It’s Tuesday," I said.

The tall man glanced at my '94 Corolla.  “Pauly, you always were thrifty.”  Cold air whistled against my face and I looked at the garage door because I hadn't opened it yet.  It had a little tear in the center, no more than four inches long or wide.  The short man tickled my neck.  “Skinny over here fit right through.  Me, it took a little while.” 

“Thanks again, Pauly,” the tall guy said, “real cool of you.”  He walked me over to the little tear, taking the briefcase off of my shoulder.  He pushed my head through.  I winced at the pain that I should have felt.  He pushed and soon both shoulders and then the rest of me went through.  I lost a shoe in the process.  From the driveway, I peered in at them.  The tall man held what looked like a child-sized blowtorch.  “My shoe,” I yelled.  It dropped at my feet.  When I was finished stepping into it, the tear was gone.  I ran my hands over where I thought it had been.  I walked down the street, hoping some neighbors would let me in.