by Steven Wolfe
If only. He ran his thumb over the lip of the crystal wineglass. It vibrated, sang to his touch just like, and was the exact same shape as, the hips of his first lover. He glanced at his wife. “What’s that look, then?” she said. He twisted his ring out of the groove in his skin and dropped it into the glass.
Steven Wolfe lives in Houston, Texas. His work has appeared recently in Exquisite Corpse, Southeast Review, Opium, NANOfiction, the Chattahoochee Review, and elsewhere.