[C] No Small Feat
by Kinima
Just as any other day, Greg was cooped up in the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. She left for work hours ago, and he'd just been woken up by a doorbell.
"Coming, coming," he whispered, rubbing his eyes.
Before opening the door, he tried to gain some control over his messy hair to, at the very least, look somewhat presentable while wearing nothing but boxer shorts, yet he was only greeted by a set of packaged boxes. Disgruntled and groggy, he stared at the boxes as if it required any further assessment, and a shadow to the left caught his attention.
A neighbour greeted him with a dorky smile before scouring back into his own apartment and closing the door. Annoyed at such an early social interaction, Greg picked up the boxes and laid them onto the kitchen table before going to the bathroom.
"What'd she buy again," he thought to himself while brushing teeth, "she always wastes money on stupid things."
He caught his own reflection in the mirror, and watched his arm muscles contract and expand as he kept pressing the toothbrush harder and harder at his teeth.
"Ow."
The taste of iron filled his mouth. He opened his lips to reveal a bloody gum, and washed it off with water. A fleeting thought about his own existence emerged as he watched the red water circle down the drain, yet it vanished as quickly as it materialised. Before leaving the bathroom, he saw hair on the shower floor, clogging up the hole, but paid it no mind.
He slammed the bathroom door and turned to the boxes, looking for yet another excuse to be angry. It was just one of those mornings.
With a small knife taken from the kitchen counter, he sat down and cut open the first box with a pink label on it. His senses were instantly overwhelmed as the box emanated a strong soapy, lavender fragrance. The box was filled with hand creams, face wash, shampoo, regenerators, body lotions, and other 'women stuff', as he called them. His face soured as he pushed the smelly box aside, far from his reach. A thought that he forgot to do something nagged at him while he moved another box in front of him.
The second box also contained 'women stuff', but this is the type that he actually was excited about. It contained neatly folded, white lingerie, tucked between silk, transparent cloth. He took it out and let it unfold in front of him, imagining vividly how seductive and tempting Jane would look wearing it, with the strong contrast of her dark hair and blushed lips. After reminiscing about the last time they made love, he remembered that she shaved, and connected the dots.
His mood suddenly vastly improved, and as giddy as a child on Christmas Eve, he cut open another box, a smaller one, only to be met by lots of tiny fluffy packing marshmallows. His curiosity piqued, his interest almost extinguishing the morning frustration, and he buried his hand inside the mysterious box, digging for its true contents, until he grabbed onto something hard and smooth.
He fished it out of the box and was now holding a giant pink dildo. Instinctively, he recoiled, throwing the dildo back into the box, sending the marshmallows flying everywhere.
"What the fuck," he yelled, now angrier than before, yet he could not fully process his emotions as his attention diverted to his hand, which started to feel strange. The tingling sensation in his fingers and palm intensified with each second passing and he began to feel colder, yet his skin was warm at the same time.
He pumped his hand a few times, turning it into a fist and releasing it, but as he held his wrist with his other hand, he noticed the difference. With a panicked jerk, he held them out in front of his chest, and watched in horror as both of his hands started slowly shrinking.
"No, no, no," he kept repeating to himself.
In a moment of dreadful desperation, he stood and grabbed his head with his diminishing arms, looking around the apartment for any means to stop this.
"I don't want to be a mickie, I can't be a mickie," he thought, over and over again.
His once imposing stature kept dwindling, and once a normal table now seemed to be in his eye level. He frantically searched for his phone, with every second gone making him smaller. With great effort, he hopped on the living room table to finally find his phone hidden under an empty pizza box, which he could barely lift. The boxer shorts started getting loose around his waist, despite the elastic band.
Attempting to call an ambulance, his ever-shrinking fingers were hardly recognised by the phone's touchscreen, but after what seemed like an eternity of tries, he managed to dial 911.
"911, what is the address of your emergency?" a mellow female voice answered.
"I am shrinking, please help," Greg cried out in a high-pitched voice that took even him by surprise.
The woman on the other side of the line was quiet for a moment, before shifting her tone. "Is this a prank call? Didn't your parents teach you not to prank emergency services?"
"No, no, I'm serious, my name is Gregory Malich! Send someone right now to West Clearing Street 6, I am allergic to-"
"Damned kids," the woman uttered, and loud, consecutive beeps roared from the phone.
Greg could only close his eyes and let his head hang in defeat, as he leaned on a patch of seemingly insurmountable hills of grey cotton that was his underwear, becoming smaller and smaller. The sweaty smell now enveloping around him like a fog disgusted him, encouraging him to find the strength of a tiny person to get out of that situation. Grabbing onto the fabric, he managed to climb out of the underwear.
Once a nuisance to find, the charging port of his phone was now an enormous gaping black hole staring at him, and he would be able to find incredibly unique humour of his situation if he knew anything about Nietzsche.
Instead, he managed to get on top of the phone screen. It was slippery and covered in dirty smears from his, once normal, fingertips. Avoiding the filth streaks like an obstacle course for dogs, he cringed at the dust in the corners of the plastic frame, until he reached the podium of a giant green button with a white phone icon in the middle.
He wanted to press it normally, but as he reached for the button, he realised his whole kneeling, naked body was on top of the button itself, barely covering it. Still, he persisted and tried pressing it, yet the phone did not register the command. His eyes got teary from the frustration, but he shook his head and stood up.
Yelling, much like a warrior marching into a battle, he started jumping and stomping onto the green button. The veins on his forehead started showing and his skin was covered in so much sweat, he slipped and fell on his butt, prompting the phone to recognise his effort. Realising he succeeded, he grinned and laughed, and ran over to the button with '9' on it, and in his manic state driven by a pure adrenaline rush, he managed to call 911 once again.
"911, what is the address of your emergency?" a friendly male voice answered this time.
Greg sat down on the pixelated screen, trying to catch his breath, before crawling over and, after he filled his lungs with as much air as possible, yelled into the microphone.
"I AM GREGORY MALICH, AT WEST CLEARING STREET 6, AND I AM HAVING AN ALLERGIC REACTION TO SILICONE. PLEASE SEND SOMEONE OVER, I'VE BEEN TURNED INTO A MICKIE."
A deafening silence ensued from the other side.
"A MICKIE! A MICRO PERSON! I AM AN INCH TALL! SILICONE ALLERGY!"
The man let out a deep sigh before repeating his first line.
"WEST CLEARING STREET 6!"
After a brief moment, the man whispered to his co-worker, "Why do they always prank call on Tuesdays? The kid's just silent now."
The familiar, ear-shattering beeps roared from the phone again.
Upon the realisation that he could not count on emergency services, Greg's tiny hands curled into fists, and he started screaming and bashing the phone screen with all his might until complete physical exhaustion. The screen was left completely intact and pristine, without a single crack, which infuriated him even more.
While breathing heavily, trying to recover from his tantrum, Greg started having flashbacks of his life. He remembered his childhood, when he went to the doctor's office for a routine check-up and was first informed of his allergies. He was a child, so he did not fully understand it then, but he has vivid memories of his mother sobbing in the sterile, white room that smelled exactly like their bathroom.
"I will never let anything happen to you, my dear boy," he remembered her saying to him in the parking lot of their home. Her eyes were teary yet determined. She hugged him tightly, and he liked that. It was such a rare occurrence throughout his childhood, as his mother was a germaphobe. The soft skin, the faint perfume smell, and the warmth, all gone now, but etched into his skull forever as fond memories to go back to.
Greg hugged his knees closer to his chest, still sitting on the phone screen. Usually, he manages to distract himself from such thoughts, or any thought really, with games or shows or endlessly scrolling down on various social media, but now he could not do something to prevent them from emerging. Naked, and painfully alone, he's never felt a smaller man, even in spite of his current size.
Before he could delve deeper into his own psyche, the phone vibrated vigorously, bringing him back into reality. And it vibrated again, shaking him to his core and leaving him feeling raw.
That's when he realised, if there was any solace for him, it was his girlfriend, Jane. She was calling him, and he looked up to see it was already 3 o'clock in the afternoon. With newfound vigour, he stood and tried jumping on the forsaken green button yet again, but he just did not have it in him anymore.
"It's fine," he thought as he got down from the phone, bracing himself for each vibration, "she'll be home soon."
The phone stopped ringing, and he finally caught his breath. Still on the table in the middle of the living room, he looked around. The little furniture they had in the apartment now seemed unreachable and monstrous, and even though he could move freely, a wave of claustrophobia washed over him, as if the enormous room was closing in on him.
After slapping himself on both cheeks, he walked to the very edge of the wooden table. Peeking over it, he looked down at the blue carpet, trying to calculate if the distance was survivable. He could not possibly just stay on the table as he knew his girlfriend's habits very well, and this was a dangerous place to be in. After swallowing a big gulp, he got down and held onto the edge, dangling from the table for a moment, before mustering the courage to release his hands.
Despite his previous complaints about the carpet, he counted his lucky stars that she insisted on a fluffy one with long, annoying threads. He landed on his back onto the sea of soft, blue embrace, and chuckled to himself thinking he now understood how sailors feel in the infinite ocean. The thrill of the leap did not escape him, and he was able to laugh at his own situation, perhaps a little bit too much and too hard for any sane person, but his mood quickly shifted once he settled in.
The intrusive thoughts of his own girlfriend, the one he spent years together and went through the highs and the lows of life with, buying a dildo started eating at him from the inside. He stared at the now distant ceiling, his eyes wide open, as mental images of her using it kept playing in his head, over and over again. How her voluptuous body contorted while she is reaching an orgasm that he gives her was now replaced with a large phallus, a lifeless yet perfectly engineered piece of silicone acting as a substitute for what was supposed to be his role in the relationship. The imaginary scenario of her penetrating herself with the dildo, and thoroughly enjoying it, was now in place of the memory of the sweet, loving look she would give him after consuming each other.
"Am I not good enough?" he thought. "Am I replaceable? Was she really faking it all along?"
While all of it severely bruised his ego, he knew, deep down, that he had to work on himself, to take the reins of life back into his hands. He got too comfortable, too complacent and stagnant, and he wasn't about to ruin his easy-mode streak until now. He didn't want to admit to himself, but he had to change, and this unfortunate event might have been just the push he needed, even if he didn't realise it just yet. The steamy brain fog and the unwanted yet raging erection he had simply thinking about her violating herself in such detached, impersonal manner awoke a sense of sinful guilt within him, as if an inkling of a thought sprouted in his mind that perhaps the purchasing of a dildo might have been a symptom of his own doing, or lack thereof.
Dealing with his own emotional state, Greg was still warmly embraced by the soft ocean. The life outside of the apartment went on per usual - the clacking of high heels on the asphalt walkways, giggling of girls going back home from school, the rumbling sounds of car engines idling at a traffic light. Teenagers playing loud, rhythmic music from their phones, and older gentlemen complaining about the youngsters from across the street. All the sounds of a concrete jungle echoed forcefully, resonating within his skull, and each whistle for a taxi made him physically cringe and recoil in pain as he covered his ears. The world didn't only seem bigger, it was louder than humanly imaginable if he was not doing anything, but laying still on his back.
He closed his eyes shut, trying to force the tears to come out. They've been pooling for far too long, and his vision was too blurry. In tiny streaks, they came out on each side, dampening his cheeks, and with swift movement, he wiped his face. He decided it's time to continue, setting his eyes on the low TV stand and deciding it was his best chance of survival. In a way, that piece of furniture became his hill to die on.
With great effort never before mustered, he fought against the blue threads that were almost as tall as him, almost swimming his own way out as he hacked at them relentlessly. After a few minutes of intense battle, he landed onto the wooden floor. With wobbly legs, he marched on, reaching the ironing board, and leaning against its plastic legs. The board had not been used for any ironing ever since they moved in together half a year ago, and acts more as a clothing hanger than what was its intended purpose. As such, various shirts and trousers hung from it.
Greg looked up at the clothes from beneath. The creases in the endless, colourful fabric resembled a summer sunset on a crisply cloudy sky, viewed from a lonely gas station far away from a city.
He approached a sleeve and stretched out his hand. The sleeve was of his formal, button-up, baby blue shirt. The last time he wore it was months ago, at Jane's cousin's second wedding. With a tight grip, he pulled the sleeve downwards a few times, and it did not budge at all.
Still, he released the fabric, his eyes lowering. A few minutes passed, minutes of an empty gaze and an empty mind, an attempt at dissociating from the situation, which failed miserably as his eyes re-focused every now and then at the giant sleeve button laughing at his demise. Greg started pacing around in circles beneath the ironing board, around the plastic covering of the legs, and he was panicking. Every obstacle so far seemed as only that - an obstacle he could overcome, like a child in a playground. The hurdles were to be conquered, yet now he's facing the biggest hurdle of them all.
The gripping fear of failure.
He walked up to the sleeve, grabbed it, then let go of it, only to continue pacing and staring into the distance, repeating the same actions over and over again, until the church bells near his apartment rang four times, shaking him back to sanity.
"I just have to do it," he thought, looking through the button without really registering it. "There is no other way."
He took a deep breath before he jumped up and latched his fingers onto the top part of the plastic button, and was now hanging from it.
"Don't look down, don't look down."
Squinting, as if that would help him not process the height, he grabbed a handful of fabric above the button and forced himself up the dangling sleeve. The sleeve did not even ebb as he slowly made his way up dealing with a minor anxiety attack with each pull, like an inexperienced mountaineer going for his first hike without protective gear.
About halfway through his arduous journey, he had the wits to look up, only to realise he is on the wrong side of the sleeve - the one facing inwards, to the ironing board. There was no way for him to make it to the top with the current route.
His eyes welled up as he shakily grabbed the fabric to his right, and he slowly moved around in a circle, his legs kicking up the sleeve, but he barely made it flow under his weight.
As he reached the part of the sleeve facing towards the apartment, he was absolutely exhausted from the intense workout this proved to be. He relaxed his arm muscles for just a moment, and tried to wipe off his increasingly sweaty palms, when he almost lost the grip on the fabric. Instinctively, for the first time, he looked down to check the height, and his head became instantly light and dizzy. He nuzzled his head back into the sleeve, which smelled faintly of mountain spring softener, and after he gathered his courage yet again, he decided to continue his journey more steadfast than before. He hated every moment of it, and it fuelled him more than he could've hoped for.
The final stretch was almost cathartic as he clutched the solid, thick board, and pulled himself up for the last time. His arms were beyond sore, they felt as if two furnaces were fired up inside. He threw himself onto the board and simply rested there, on the floral pattern, catching his breath.
"Ascended to heaven," he said out loud, and gradually started crackling into a maniacal laughter.
After his body stopped sweating profusely and his breath became steady once more, he turned his head to look out the window, but the curtains blocked the view. Still, he could feel the breeze from one of the cracked windows, and it smelled fresh, as if it rained earlier that day.
He jumped back to his feet, avoiding using his noodle arms for support, and skipped down the long line of the board, stepping over the outer lines of the flowers. When he reached the pointy edge of the board, he realised he would have to jump down to the TV stand, and the difference in height was much greater than it seemed to him looking up from the floor. It did not matter much anymore, as he was riding the happy high from his most recent conquer, and if he managed to do that, in his mind, he could do anything.
He grinned, walked back a few inches, got in position, and sprinted as if hell hounds were chasing him. Once at the very end of the board, he took the leap of faith.
And he landed on the wooden cover of the TV stand, right onto his hands, which softened the blow and did not hurt him much. He was so lightweight and his arms were so numb, he could not feel a single thing.
Now convinced he is absolutely invincible, he shook himself from the dust sticking to his skin, and he put his chest out as he started strutting towards the front of the TV screen, yet he slowed down to a complete halt once he realised his own reflection followed his step.
He remembered what he had forgotten to do. He did not feed the fish.
Half a dozen of chunky goldfish dwarfed over him as they carelessly swam around, confined to the walls of their aquarium sitting next to the television. It's as if his eyes completely ignored this when checking the room, it was unnecessary information at the time. The goldfish glided around above him, leaving him in their shadow, and he realised that they could easily gulp him down if they had the chance to do it.
Now completely stripped of his vigour, he focused on the reflection, and saw his tired, pale face. The circles below his eyes were larger than usual, as if they pulled down his entire cheek line. He put his hands on his face, then dragged down the cheeks, staring into his soul the entire time yet looking through himself, as if he was a ghost. The hope he felt mere moments ago dissipated as his body was the height of two pebbles stacked together, and he could finally see that. Greg was suddenly forced to face a harsh reality, one that he deliberately ignored up until then. Gentle bubbling of the enormous water filter was steady, keeping his mind grounded in the moment. He could no longer overlook his own tiny stature by distracting himself with things that simply had to be done, no matter what.
A tiny, tiny man stared back at him when he took a step back, and with each step, he seemed smaller and smaller as he looked on with utter disbelief. Finally, he had to face his miniscule self, all of it made worse by the giant goldfish now gaining interest in him.
They noticed him and idly swam towards him, their mouths repeatedly opening and closing in a rhythmic pattern. The unintelligent, dull expressions of the fish signalled to him that they do not care, they never cared, and they never will care that he is now a mickie. They might as well see him as potential food.
He fell down to his knees and crawled to the glass aquarium wall, and sat on his feet, looking at himself, yet his mind was not quite there. To the best of his ability, he ignored the giant fat goldfish mouthing at his crotch, and he imagined himself being of normal size again. With stern eyes, he nodded resolutely.
He swore he will be a better man from now on. As soon as Jane takes him to the emergency room and he gets fixed, he will strive to be the best, every single day for the rest of his life. No more games, no more chronic masturbation, he will love Jane and show it to her constantly, he will apologise to her for being a deadbeat boyfriend and tell her how lucky he is to be with her. He will clean himself up and get a proper job, no more sporadic food delivery when she makes him do it. Finally, he will propose to her as soon as he gets enough money saved up. She'd been hinting at it a while ago, and he made excuses before, but now he felt like it was the right time. After all, they've been together for years now, but he could not remember the date of their anniversary. They will go on and marry and have children and live the best lives they could possibly live, if only he could survive this. He was never a man of religion, but a quiet prayer occupied his mind and he vowed to any god listening that he will change his ways. He will no longer be a small man.
As he got up and walked to the front of the TV, the fish followed him to the end of the aquarium, then as if nothing happened, swam away and continued circling the cheap, decorative castle as their centrepiece, their altar.
He dusted off the wooden edge of the furniture and plopped down to take a seat, crossed his arms and waited. He clearly remembers the statistics about mickies. Once the allergic reaction is on, and once they shrink down, the survival rate is below 3% in the first 6 hours, drastically lowering with each hour after that. A lot of the fatalities are from accidents with harmless objects, but most of them are from getting squashed by their loved ones who frantically search for them once they realise what happened. This was his best chance at getting noticed, right in front of the television, where Jane will surely look at. For a moment, he felt immense pride for making it up there, a feeling which quickly dissipated when he turned his head around and saw a seemingly endless black screen looming over him.
As minutes passed, he was starting to become increasingly nervous. Doubts about what he considered an ingenious plan crept in like an October fog in the early morning hours.
"What if she throws her bag at the TV?" he thought. "No, that's ridiculous, she's never done that before. Why would she do that? It makes no sense, why am I even thinking this?"
His eyes saddened. "What if... No, stop. Don't even think that. She will be happy to see me, of course, she is my girlfriend."
He banged his forehead a few times, trying to get the intrusive thoughts out of his mind, and remained seated perfectly still, as absent-mindedly as humanly possible.
As soon as the church bells rang twice, Jane walked in. In his excitement, he shot up and started frantically yelling and waving at her, but he could read her face by now, and she was mad. She slammed the door so hard, the vibration threw him off and he fell, embraced by the soft carpet yet again.
"Greg!" she shouted as she placed the keys in the bowl by the entrance. "GREG?!"
She turned around and noticed the opened boxes on the table, and the white fluff scattered on the floor around it.
"God damn it, Greg," she said and tossed her hand bag onto the couch.
"JANE! JANE!!" he yelled as loud as he could, but his euphoria turned into horrified dread when she took out the vacuum cleaner.
"Useless," she muttered to her chin as she turned on the cleaner, "absolutely useless."
To him, the giant mouth of the vacuum cleaner resembled a shark's jaws. He watched in horror as she hoovered up all the white fluff, and turned the deafening death trap to the other corners of the room. He tried to stand and run, but he kept trampling over the long carpet threads. As she moved the vacuum cleaner towards the carpet, Greg yelled and tried to leap out of the soft sea, only to find out the threads completely tangled around his small, naked body.
The mouth of the cleaner grew bigger and smaller, as she motioned it back and forth struggling with the carpet's long threads being completely sucked in, until the jaws were as wide as a building.
His bewildered eyes widened before he shut them just before the vacuum would take him to the afterlife, and the motions stopped.
Jane's previously angry expression turned soft, her eyebrows furled with confusion and concern. She spotted a beige little stain struggling in the vast blueness.
"What the...?" she turned off the death jaws, and squinted. "Greg?"
He went back to yelling while trying to untie himself from the threads, then moved his arms like a lunatic.
"Is that really you?" she said with a normal tone, which pierced his ears, but he did not care anymore. He was safe.
She crouched down, her knees cracking, and he could not help himself but notice her underwear, hiding under her pencil skirt and nylon pantyhose.
"Jane, save me," he pleaded with a raspy voice.
"Whaaaa?" she said, moving her head down closer to him, her hand covering the back of her ear.
Her enormous face was right in front of him, and he realised he was about as tall as her cute upturned nose.
"Why are you naked?" she giggled, each exhale completely washing over him like a hurricane while she picked him out of the entaglement. "And tiny?"
He could see every speckle of makeup on her face, every open pore on her forehead, and all the tiny green flecks dotted around the iris of her giant hazel eyes, something he has never seen before. Once again, just like on their first date, he found himself to be completely smitten by her.
Frightened out of his mind, yet emboldened by his saving grace, he slowly made his way towards her ear, and pulled down on her ear lobe to lean in, using the earring to rest his weight on.
"Please, Jane, take me to the ER."
"ER?" she repeated. "Like emergency room?"
He nodded, possibly a thousand times. His soul was filled with overwhelming hope. He was not about to become a mickie statistic. There is a god, after all, and she listened.
"Now," she said, her hand now curiously resting on her cheek, "why on Earth would I do that?"
Her bright, playful eyes scared him as she moved them to look straight at him. He saw each lump of mascara sticking to her eyelashes. The unexpected tonal shift of her voice frosted his spine.
"To... to help me become normal again," he stuttered. "Jane, please."
Her mouth stretched into a wide grin. Her index finger hovered above him for a moment, and he could clearly see all the patterns of her skin before it gently pressed him down.
"You know," she wiggled him around on the carpet with great amusement, which caused a burning sensation on his back. "I was really hoping you'd go snooping through my stuff."
"Wha-what do you mean?"
"I can't really hear ya, but I'll guess you don't know what I mean," she said.
She put her hands on her knees and stood back up, releasing him from the finger prison, then took off her high heels and tossed them towards the entrance. They clunked hard against the wooden floor, and Greg felt it all over his body as his ears felt like they were about to start bleeding.
"You told me once that you were allergic to silicone," she said.
With a slight pinch to the sides, she scrunched up her skirt and lifted up her foot, which was now covering any light source for Greg, looming over him and completely shadowing the area.
"And to be frank, I was getting sick of you."
All the creases and skin cells of her usually small, soft foot were coming through the dark, yet transparent nylon hugging it. The smell of sweat was unbearable as her sole became larger and larger.
"So I ordered that dildo, knowing you'd open the box."
He let his instinct take over and he leapt out of the carpet, but to no avail. In a resolute victory, she had him trapped down between her toes, under the restricting nylon.
"And you want to know the best part?"
She barely held back her excitement as she squirmed her toes, pinning him down even further under the sweaty nylon.
"They'll just chalk it up as yet another mickie accident!"
Finally, she seemed like she couldn't help herself but let out a sadistic, guttural, almost comically evil laugh, but when she looked down, she saw the tiny face of a completely defeated man, meshed against and distorted by the nylon.
"Aww, don't be like that," she smiled.
Greg could not even bear to look at her even if he wanted to. Deep down, he felt as if he deserved this, as some sort of perverted justice coming to light.
"Look at you, all sad under my foot," she teased him.
Despite rubbing her nylon skin against his whole, yet tiny body, she did not feel what was his throbbing, uncontrollable erection.
"Okay, okay," she said, "Greg, I was just joking."
He instantly perked up, and turned his head towards her. Usually, she was a head shorter than him, but now, specially from this perspective, she was a giant, a goddess. He was in such awe, he stopped freaking out and simply admired her divinity.
Jane became a little uncomfortable with the look on his face, and she felt the rush to her already pre-blushed cheeks.
"Promise me you'll buy me flowers at least once per month," she commanded with a pouty voice, and peaked down at him.
He nodded resolutely, which only encouraged her to ask for more.
"And that you will plan date nights," she smiled, "at least once per uhm, let's go with two weeks."
Again, he nodded.
She moved her foot away from him, what to him was one giant gust of wind and relief, and he remained laying on his back. She got down again on her knees, then decided to lay next to him.
No TV screens, aquariums or any gigantic clothes or goldfish could have prepared him for this feeling of absolute minisculity as they laid next to each other.
"Will you find a job?" she asked, circling her massive finger on the patch between them, each movement making him flinch.
"Yes," he cleared his throat, "first thing in the morning."
Their eyes met, and her mouth stretched into a gentle smile before becoming serious again.
She paused for a moment.
"Do you love me?" she whispered shyly.
His tiny heart almost ripped into pieces as the words swept his hair. When was the last time they said that to each other?
"I love you, Jane," he said, looking straight at her. "With all of my mickie being."
She giggled at his silly joke. "I love you too, Greg."
"Jane, could you please help me now?" his brow furled as he pleaded once more. "You need to take me to the ER so they can fix me."
"Oh right, yes!" she said.
She cheerfully stood up and skipped over to collect her hand bag and her keys, already daydreaming about the perfect couple life they will lead from now on. She could finally brag to her friends how amazing and attentive her boyfriend turned out to be, and she loved imagining how jealous they would be.
She came back to pick him up, she was met with a red splotch staining the carpet.
"Ow fuck," she whispered, and covered her mouth in shock.
She checked her feet, and sure enough, there was blood on her left foot. She did not even feel it happen. Confused, she sat down at the very table that started all this, and took a few moments to recollect her thoughts and process what just happened.
Eventually, she took her phone out of the bag and pressed a few buttons before putting it up to her ear.
"Hello?" a deep male voice answered.
"Hey, Brad? Can you come pick me up?"
"What? Did something happen?"
She looked back at the small, bloody pool in the carpet.
"I am, uh," her voice shook, but she closed her eyes, composed herself and straightened her back, now playing with the lingerie on the table. "I'm newly single."
