“Why do you collect sheep?”
“I don’t.”
“Um, yes you do.”
She saw the footstool, its grin lopsided and its fluffy white coat grey with age. She saw the clock that baaed on the hour, an irritation she had evolved to ignore. She thought of the stone sheep outside, both welcoming and unnerving.
He grabbed a glass sheep from the bookshelf. “Your mother got me this. I was so confused she thought it was hilarious. After that, it was a sheep based gift every year. I don’t collect them. They are thrust upon me.”
The sheep on the wall baaed.
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