“Ta-da!”
Mark uncovered his eyes and stared across the room.
“A painting?” he got off the couch to get a closer look. “A torn painting, no less.”
Patricia frowned. “It’s not torn. And it fills the wall nicely, don’t you think?”
“Then what’s that?” he pointed to a three-inch pale line on the right side of the painting.
“It’s a falling star.” Patricia crossed her arms and moved to stare at it from the kitchenette. “We needed something, and it was only five bucks at the flee market.”
“Five bucks for a torn painting?” Mark asked, edging closer to it.
“Our budget is so tight I can’t buy a five dollar painting?”
“No Baby, I just hate that they took advantage of you.”
“It’s not torn!” Patricia threw her hands up and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay.
Mark ran a hand over the thickly layered paint. He fingered the tear, it was clean. No loose threads or fraying. “I might be able to fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix but I’ll take it back if it’ll make you happy.”
“Babe,” Mark said, turning to her but she took her wine and slipped out to sit on the fire escape.
As he moved his hand, his finger slid into the tear. Soft wind and lilacs drifted over him. There was no wall behind his finger. He pushed his whole hand in, and the world went white.
Mark groaned and blinked. Above him silver disks flashed in a periwinkle sky, the ground beneath him lumpy and uncomfortable. He sat up and froze, staring until he pinched himself. He was lying on a hill of gold nuggets. He whirled around. Behind him, the tear still showed, a glowing fiber optic strand. Grinning, he began stuffing his pockets.