One day, John Angela noticed a tiny flaw in reality. Sitting on the train
heading into the city, the usual half-awake hypnotic jostling and people
pressed up against him — hanging in the air a foot in front of his face
was something he first assumed was a hovering fly. He reached for it, and
it stayed put. He touched it. He yanked his hand back in surprise. Not
because it was hot or it hurt or anything, it was just startling that it
was solid.

Long story short — he finally took his handkerchief and wiped it off. He
then found he'd cleared a quarter-sized hole in reality that moved with
him and remained always in the same location. It was like a hole in the
fog on the bathroom mirror. The temptation to keep rubbing was maddening,
but he resisted it. What would he do with a translucent reality membrane?
How would he function? How would he earn a living?

He'd be in the most ordinary places & situations, like in line at Burger
King, or whatever, and he'd see the regular scene, and something entirely
different occurring in the tiny round window. Often just a lot of shapes
and colors. Sometimes it was like a tiny TV screen, and figures would
move about and interact. Faces would suddenly appear, like the view in a
christmas ornament.

He managed to get used to it, before long. It's funny how, if you don't
tell anyone about your weirdnesses, it never becomes an issue. The people
in his life assumed he was just the same as before. He hadn't any idea
how to describe it to them anyway. What was he looking at? Into what
reality was he peeking?