She looked
much the same when she came by my apartment to pick me up, except her skin now
radiated with a sunny blush. It must have been the St Palma sun doing favors
for her constitution…alternatively; she was enjoying the honeymoon phase of her
relationship with new boyfriend Grant.
Seeing her
again made feelings swell up inside me, and not altogether pleasant. A vague
feeling of loss; something like the rushing deflation of spent energy trying to
chase a train gradually receding into the distance, and heavy finality hanging
over my head; the realization I needed to stop running. She was gorgeous as
always but there was an invisible membrane separating us; creating an uncanny
sense of unreality, like she was from another era, or time, or even universe,
forever only a visitor in mine, and would inevitably have to return to her own.
She kissed
me on the cheek unselfconsciously, drenching me in flowery perfume, and then
swept me into her car.
Our
destination today was a fitness studio with a mirror running along one wall and
windows along the other. Mats were laid out on the floor. When she carried me
inside, it was empty apart from Larissa, who was going around pulling shades
down over all the windows until the whole room was dim.
As we
stared from across the floor, she went to the side of the room and clicked on a
switch. Strips along the ceiling lit up, and judging from the heat pulsing out
against the top of my head, they functioned as heat lamps. In the dim, wooden
studio, the heated light gave the room a candlelit appearance.
Larissa came
over and stood before us, wearing booty shorts and an athletic crop-top. Her
face lit up and she held her hands out in a friendly gesture like she was going
to hug me, though her arm span was manifestly gargantuan.
“THERE’S MY
POCKET POWERHOUSE! HOW YA DOING, LITTLE BUDDY?”
“Hi,
Larissa,” I said, genially. “And this is my fiancée, Natalie.”
“UHHH…MIGHT
HAVE THAT MIXED UP,” Natalie said.
I slapped a hand to my face, shaking my head urgently.
“I
definitely have that mixed up. Natalie’s m-my friend. She’s the chaperone I told
you about.”
Realizing
the error, the trainer laughed.
“JERRY WAS
JUST A BEANPOLE BEFORE HE STARTED SEEING ME,” she said with mock
self-importance, “NOW LOOK AT HIM.”
“I used to
be six foot, too,” I shot back, “but she made me do too many overhead weights.
Now look at me.”
Larissa
laughed and crouched with her hands on her thighs, bringing her face close to
mine.
“THAT’S
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T STRETCH BEFORE A WORKOUT, PONYBOY.” She punctuated
this retort by tapping my nose with her little finger. Then she straightened
and took a position on a mat before us.
The world
gave a faint back and forth rocking as Natalie shifted on her feet, and her
soft grip tightened in an unconscious squeeze for a fraction of a second. I
sensed she was nervous or uncomfortable, though I didn’t know why. Maybe the
banter; she’d never been comfortable poking fun at my size. Particularly since
it was the front on which she’d initially rejected me. It was one aspect of her
where I sensed slight friction between us, slight incongruity, even though – to
me – the rest of her was buttery smooth.
“OKAY,
POSITION!” Larissa said, and then, “OH, NO MATS IN YOUR SIZE, JERRY,” her brow
scrunched in thought, “UNLESS YOU WANT TO USE A MOUSEPAD—?”
This time
it didn’t sound like a retort, but a legitimate proposal. There were three
mats, one for each of us, all normal sized. From my position suspended at
Natalie’s chest level, peering down at my mat, which I could have used as a
long jump track.
Toes
scrunching on the mat as she restlessly waited for my answer, the side of
Larissa’s mouth quirked faintly as she added:
“—OR MY SOCK?”
Her
sneakers and socks were up against the wall at the side of the room. It was
early morning and she can’t have worn them long, but the warmth of the day made
me question whether her socks would be laundry fresh.
Before I
could reply, Natalie’s voice beat against the top of my head.
“YOU’RE NOT
REALLY THINKING OF DOING THIS ON THE FLOOR, ARE YOU?”
Her thumb
rolled across my shoulders, giving me an impromptu massage. In the wall-high
mirror across the room (the studio doubled for dance classes) I saw my tiny
head poking out from her fingers, the comparatively large thumb supporting my
back, sweeping back and forth behind the nape of my neck, making the muscles in
my neck bulge slightly. Seeing myself dwarfed in people’s hands – warm, soft
hands that were massaging me at the same time – still caught me off guard. From
my point of view, I was not small, but other people were huge. The mirror
dissipated that illusion; it was me that was the wrong size, and getting
contained and molded around by powerful fingers like a tiny human shaped piece
of dough.
I looked up
at her reflection in the mirror quizzically, as she ignored the mirror and
stared down at the top of my head with a look of concern.
“Why not?”
“WELL…” she
started awkwardly, “…IT'S A LONG WAY DOWN, THAT'S ALL.”
I laughed.
“You realized?”
When I’d
lived with her, she usually carried me around from place to place, and lowered
me onto elevated surfaces of furniture, such as her bed or desk, or couch.
She’d been uncomfortable about me making transits across the floor, and would
quickly scoop me up and ask me where I was headed. I hadn’t complained at the
time; it was an excuse for physical contact with her, but I only got free run
of her house while she was at work or university.
Meanwhile,
Larissa had strode over to her sneakers, plucked up a white ankle-high running
sock, and lay it down upon the mat set out for me, smoothing it flat with a
palm.
“NO DRAMAS, THIS IS A FLOOR-BASED ACTIVITY. "She said brightly. “HOP ON AND WE’LL GET STARTED!”
She patted
the sock as if I was a puppy she was training, and I wondered if she’d seen Alpha, but then remembered it hadn’t
been released yet.
Once she
had stepped back, Natalie crouched and the soles of my bare feet were gently
placed down on the downy surface of the cotton sock. Then, Natalie’s huge form
extended upwards again, I saw this in the mirror, one side of her mouth was
pulled as if in thought; her reflection suggested she regretted raising the
issue.
Satisfied, Larissa
stood with her hands on her hips, apprehending us both.
“ALRIGHT! WE’RE
DOING SOMETHING A LITTLE STEAMY TODAY: ‘HOT YOGA.’
Natalie turned
to stare down at me.
“YOU NEVER
TOLD ME YOU DID BIKRAM!”
I shrugged.
“No one
told me, either.”
I didn’t
even know what Bikram was.
Natalie
eyed Larissa warily.
“YOU’RE NOT
GOING TO STAND ON US, ARE YOU?”
Larissa let
out a knowing laugh.
“WHAT, YOU
DON’T WANT TO PLAY PEOPLE TRAMPOLINE?” she joked. “NONE OF THAT INTENSE STUFF
WITH ME. I’D BE TERRIFIED OF HURTING YOU.”
Her eye then
cast over me, hesitating.
“OH, BUT
JERRY? YEAH, I’M GONNA WALK ALL OVER HIM. STAND ON HIM LIKE A TRICK RIDER. LOOK
AT THAT MUSCLE TONE. HE MIGHT NOT BE NORMAL SIZE, BUT I THINK HE CAN TAKE IT.”
She gave me
an inconspicuous wink.
“’NORMAL
SIZE’,” Natalie repeated. “IS THAT CORRECT? IS THAT…PC?” She looked at me for
clarification.
“Doesn’t
bother me.”
Maybe I
still had a crush on Natalie, but it didn’t mean her impulse to rush in and
‘bubble wrap’ and ‘quarantine’ the scene of offence to my stature wasn’t
irritating sometimes, embarrassing, even if it was well-intentioned. Could a
girl be a ‘white knight’? A ‘white princess’?
Larissa
instructed us through a number of initial warm-up standing poses which required
more balance than flexibility. Then we proceeded to a pose where we had our
legs stretched straight out, and had to push our faces down against our knees. Being
a practitioner in her spare time, Natalie had no problem with this, but I began
to struggle.
Since first
shrinking I’d been incredibly flexible, but it seemed an after-effect of the
medical procedure was to steal some of my athletic flexibility in exchange for
firmer, tighter muscles. My chest was so beefed up, and my ribcage like a tiny musclebound
barrel, and at some thirty-degree angle I began to feel the muscles pull and
protest against any further extension.
The next
pose was something called ‘the rabbit’. Belying the name, the pose was not
nearly as cute and cuddly. It required curling up into a ball, with head down,
except you had to keep a gap between your chest and legs, bowing and stretching
the spine. And my spine was buried under straps of tense beef. Larissa had to
apply the pressure of fingertips against my butt to get my hips to lift
properly, and slide a finger below my midsection, to support my chest from
caving down against my legs.
Then we
completed something called ‘the camel’, which required balancing on the
haunches while bending backwards – basically a reverse rabbit. Again, my tensed
back refused to stretch generously enough to complete the pose properly and
Larissa had to place a finger against my chest to work my spine backwards,
massaging my muscles to tease them out. I began to wonder if she felt like she
was posing a doll.
All of the
studio fans were kept off and the windows wide open to maintain the conditions
of typical ‘hot yoga’ practice. In the heat, sweat was rolling down my sides,
and my heart was hammering like piston. Earlier that morning, I’d run out of
milk to make oatmeal for breakfast, and too lazy to call Raf, I just
substituted the milk with Kolade to create some chimeric carbonated cereal. Now
it felt like I’d poured ten cups of coffee into the oatmeal instead.
Sweat was
beginning to roll in lines down the womens’ smooth bare legs, and at my height,
the scents’ of perspiration were inescapable.
“JERRY,
MIND IF I TRY SOMETHING?” Larissa asked suddenly.
She was crouching
over me, smooth golden calves tense, and a faint sheen of perspiration
glittered over her skin. The row of her shiny toenails stared me in the face.
“What?”
“OH, JUST THINKING
OF USING AS YOU A LITTLE EXAMPLE,” she replied with keen anticipation. As she
rocked forward on the balls of her feet, the lengths of her tanned toes flexed .
“YOUR BODY IS A COMPLETE DIAGRAM OF MUSCLE ANATOMY, I HAVE TO SHOW YOU OFF.”
“Okay.” I
wasn’t sure what she intended, but figured it couldn’t hurt.
Then she
was manually coaxing my body into some kind of pose like I was play-doh. She
rolled my limbs in the sockets to the edge of their limits, flipped me onto my
front, kept me pressed there, my face against the sock. The cotton fibers
emanated the odor of Larissa’s foot directly into my nose, and worse, she
inadvertently had my face pressed like that with the effortless application of
pressure against my shoulders and one finger resting atop the back of my head. She
meant no harm: the odor must have been indiscernible to either woman, even up
close, but my size and delicate, sensitive smell made me an attuned radar for
trace odors that were undetectable to normal sized people. And I was too
embarrassed to point it out, so I
endured in silence.
Still, my
muscles began to ache. I grunted, my cheek pressed into the mat; I could see
myself in the wall-high mirror across the room, a tiny human pretzel glued to
the floor by the unhurried pressure of Larissa’s fingertips which were working
and manipulating my limbs with fascination, trying to stretch me and test my
pliability. She took my hips firmly, while keeping my shoulders pinned beneath
her other hand, and began to tug and manipulate my spine. Vertebrae groaned and
popped as her fingerpads roamed my spine, pushing and kneading out the muscles.
“A LITTLE
BURN IS GOOD,” she reassured, “BUT IT SHOULDN’T HURT.”
Warmth
seeped back into my limbs as they were relaxed again, and blood tingled back
into my extremities. I started getting to my feet, but Larissa’s fingers were
speedier, suddenly rippling around me, flipping me onto the mat again, and
holding me there, the warm fingerpads seeming to walk up my body to keep it in
position. The sock odor seeped back into my nostrils; the tang of sweat and
rich scent of dank insulated flesh. Lying forwards with my head pressed down
against the sock, and the weight of her hand against me, I was at rest while my
limbs were plucked and stretched for demonstration, and Larissa vocally
marvelled at what a perfectly tiny model of human form I was, as the earlier energy
drink kept my head immersed in a pulsation of excited blood wavering in my
ears. I started to feel faint and closed my eyes, counting mentally until the
feeling subsided.
Larissa
began tugging at my elbows, rolling my shoulders, asking me to use my feet and
back to push against her while she had my arms. My tendons started to twitch in
an uncoordinated, ineffective way, and she settled me again, pushing firmly on
my back to prevent me hurting myself.
“THIS NEXT
ONE MIGHT BE TOUGH EVEN FOR YOU, HERCULES,” Larissa said. “YOU’RE SO TIGHT AND
I WANT TO LOOSEN YOU UP, SO WE’RE GOING TO BRING IN A LITTLE MEDITATIONAL
TRICK. IMAGINE YOU’RE A MAGIC CARPET, AND I’M GOING FOR A RIDE ON YOU, BUT YOU’RE
SO LIGHT AND FLEXIBLE IT’S NO SWEAT.”
Her
fingertips danced over the muscles of my back, tapping in places.
“LUCKY YOU’RE
SO TINY, OTHERWISE I’D BE RIGHT UP THERE,” she stroked around my shoulder
blades, allowing my muscles to depress
and support the weight of her pushing fingertips, “ONE FOOT ON EACH
RHOMBOID, TO HELP YOU MEDITATE. DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT,” she rocked back
on her heels, lifting one hand to rest on her thigh while the other traced up
and down the span of my spine as if to rub in my unimpressive length, “YOU’RE NO
CARPET, BUT THERE’S DEFINITELY ENOUGH HERE FOR A TOE PAD, MAYBE.”
She took my
legs and began trying to bend them back over my head, and I had to suppress a
gasp. This required some manual dexterity from both of us, and the pressure of
her determined fingertips squashed my lungs a little, which were grasping for
oxygen. Natalie asked a question and Larissa answered, keeping me locked in
position, the pressure up on my body and chest, disallowing me to shift even an
inch. My diaphragm had turned into a cinch and wouldn’t expand, more air was
slipping out of my lungs, but it didn’t worry me; I could hold my breath for
eight minutes. Plus I didn’t want to alarm the women. Embarrassing to call
myself out for suffocating under the gentle pressure of a thumb. And in front
of Natalie.
I waited
patiently.
Keeping up
the pressure on my back, Larissa began idly rotating and stretching my limbs,
but, distracted by what she was saying, she was putting too much pressure on my
chest. My lungs were starting to get tight now; it must have been five or six
minutes.
I strained against the pressure below my shoulderblades and
a fingertip settled down against the back of my head, gently pushing my face
into the mat, trying to keep me in the pose.
Finally the force eased up as Larissa called for the next
pose. I jumped up to my feet again to catch my breath before she could
manipulate me once more.
The pressure of holding the pose caused a cramp or a strain
in my chest, preventing my lungs from properly expanding. They trembled and
burned for air. A wave of tiredness swept over me.
“Don’t stop,” I said, slurring, “I just need to rest…”
Then sounds became an unintelligible tremolo. A fuzzy
feeling was rapidly climbing up from my toes, towards my head. I was dropping,
dropping, and then my front hit the mat and pressed there. Larissa gave a
halting shout and Natalie shrieked. Then sounds faded out altogether and
darkness swallowed everything.
...
—What seemed like only a moment later, I was launched back
into the world, wide eyed and gasping for breath. My eyelids fluttered weakly,
letting in vague snapshots of painful light, almost immediately shutting again.
Below, the foamy yoga mat, and the sock was gone. The world
seemed to tip back and forth sickly, as if I was on a boat. And no sound except
for an oceanic roaring. My face was sultry and wet like I’d overstayed in a
sauna, the rest of my body clammy, but dry. There was a sweet, oily substance
coating my lips. It tasted like lip gloss. For some reason my windpipe ached,
all the way down into my lungs, like it had undergone an intense yoga stretch
of its own.
I tried to open my eyes again, but only for an instant; the
visual world tilted nauseatingly, tiny spots of color burst in front of my
eyes. I shuttered them until I was seeing the world through a dim horizontal
bar below my eyelashes.
There were two pairs of blue eyes peering down at me in
concern. Vision steadying a little, the eyes blended into a pair of gigantic
faces hovered low, their magnified features blocking out everything: Larissa,
her wavy blonde hair spilled forward over her bare shoulders, and thin rogue
braid dangling over my head like a rope. Higher, the tight black
spandex-covered shelf of her chest, and tan midsection divided into the faint
grid of her abs, tensed as she hunched over me. Natalie’s slightly darker hair pulled
back in a ponytail, and porcelain skin and smaller, leaner frame, sweat now
darkening the pits and neck of her tight pale t-shirt, and beginning to run in
tiny rivulets down from her temples.
Both women were kneeling on the yoga mat, staring down at me
with alarm. I caught their lips moving as if in speech, but there was just the
roaring, as if on a beachline.
They reared back, speaking to each other. Someone shifted,
making the yoga mat jerk. Drops of sticky saline pattered onto my brow, running
down the sides of my head, and trickled in under my eyelashes, making my eyes
sting. Sweat, but I couldn’t tell whose. I wanted to rub my eyes but my muscles
trembled like jelly.
Oh no, I realized with a dropping sense of shame, I passed
out. And in front of Natalie. How embarrassing. It didn’t occur to me to be any
more concerned than for my ego. Maybe I could still put my acting skills to use
playing it off like I’d tripped, or better; I’d been meditating so intensely
they’d confused my transcendental fugue for unconsciousness.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, and was just about to
apologize for their superfluous concern, when Larissa’s tanned face raced down
to me at supersonic speed, so fast it was a blue and her plush pink lips parted
as they swallowed my entire world. Fruity-tasting lip gloss smeared onto my
tongue as the lips latched around my face and created a tight rubbery seal,
blocking out all sight.
A jet of warm air was propelled onto my face, blowing my
lips wide open and started pumping what felt like a torrential storm of air
straight down my windpipe into my lungs. The ache in my windpipe flared up
again as it was forced to expand with the dense cubic volume of this warm
torrential influx, my lungs flaps in and out like sails. An overflow of air was
shunted aside, pushed down my esophagus and inflating my stomach to near
bursting point.
Then the air was sucked back again, and I wanted to scream
as my lungs felt like they were going to turn inside out and get vacuumed out
of my body.
An instant later, the process reversed again and more air
was roaring into my body, filling me up like a balloon. I felt like I was
trying to breathe through a plane propeller on full blast. This cyclonic
process repeated several times, before the moist lips broke their seal over my
face and rose swiftly back into the air.
The world was spinning madly around my head as my body tried
vainly to process all this rapid gas exchange. My eyelids flickered with
exhaustion as the great shadowy masses loomed high over me, shifting restlessly
as they examined my condition. I was completely limp, stunned.
But it was not over.
A large object slammed down upon my chest, rose up a little,
and then slammed back down. And again, and again. It felt like a full grown
person was jumping up and down on my chest. And hurt just as much.
My blurry vision focused just enough to see the giant
fingers – pointer and middle finger – tanned and sheathed in black fingerless
spandex gloves, belonged to Larissa, and in the process of trying to palpate my
ribcage for CPR, albeit painfully. Each finger battered with pinpoint precision
at a tiny target on my bare chest, around my sternum. My chest cavity clenched
in and out rapidly under the pressure driven by the massive flesh battering
rams, so incredibly strong, and yet, paradoxically slender, feminine, and
trying to do its utmost to keep me alive.
Tears of pure helplessness sprung into my eyes and my throat
choked up as I watched the blunt fingertips fly over my head, angle slightly to
ensure the fingerpads made contact with my chest. A tiny mercy; I could
scarcely imagine how much more painful it would have been if the tips of the
nails were making contact instead.
My heart skipped a beat as those massive fingertips oriented
down again, racing towards my helpless supine bare chest with increasing speed.
It seemed like the steel bar of a triggered mousetrap was flipping down at my
breastbone. Then they struck my chest, pushing down sharply.
My eyelids fluttered in shock, the air shot out of my lungs
with a whoosh. My ribs buckled and creaked inward. The fingers were rising into
the air again…
I tried to make a sound but the larynx in my strained, over-stretched
throat flapped uselessly. By the feel of it, I was in for a world of bruises
tomorrow.
The fingers drove down again into my chest. There was a
snapping sound as at least one of my ribs gave in to one of the many tremendous
strikes, breaking like a wafer. The world seemed to perform a revolution around
a point on the ceiling. I wheezed in terror as pain jolted through my chest.
Neither girl noticed or ignored it. The fingers carried on
methodically, driving down again and again against my sternum. Every blow sent
pain spasming through my torso. Cold chills wracked my limbs even in the warm,
balmy air. I was conscious now, but felt too conscious. The unconsciousness was
peaceful compared to this.
I opened my mouth to yell out when the giant face came
flying back down at me, Larissa’s huge glossed lips zoomed in and once again
wrapping securely around my face like a nozzle, and once again sending
billowing gasps of air into my aching, screaming body.
With my newly shattered rib, this was pure agony. With each
blast of air, my lungs bulged, flexing my broken ribs outward, sending ripples
of staggering pain throughout my chest. I felt like I was going to puke.
Finally, the ocean soundtrack diminished and from the other
side of Larissa’s head, came Natalie’s voice, rapid and quaking:
“—PLEASE WAKE UP, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, JERRY, CAN YOU—”
The heavy mass of wet flesh relented, lifted off my face,
letting me get some air in. I was trembling. There was a warm glob of saliva
trapped in the back of my throat, which I quickly had to swallow before I could
get much air in. I had a weird feeling it wasn’t mine – maybe because I
couldn’t possibly have produced such a thick copious amount so quickly.
Larissa leaned over me, with one tanned, tree-trunklike arm
held straight on either side of me. I went to say something just as Larissa
turned her head back down to me, and without warning, the blonde’s head plunged
over my body as she went to press her ear against my chest – practically
covering it – while burying me alive under a soft pile of strawlike hair.
Seeking to clear my face, I weakly fanned my arms through the silky strands
like an explorer attempting to part bamboo shoots. The enormous head held
lightly just upon my chest for a moment, balancing without applying pressure,
as she listened and timed my heartbeat, keeping me positively dwarfed under her
head and drowning in her hair.
Satisfied, her head finally lifted back into the sky,
revealing the room again. Her keen eyes observed me for a moment longer, then her
limbs flexed powerfully as she lifted herself up onto her feet, but remained
crouched. She wiped her brow, brushing the wavy locks of her long hair out of
her face.
I rolled over, clutching my side and feeling fractured bone
protest at the touch. My breaths came short and painful, but I was breathing.
The wood studio floor spanned around the yoga mat like an ocean around an
island, but at least the world wasn’t tipping back and forth anymore, it was
level and my vision was clear.
Now Natalie’s hand reached down over my face, the thumb
planting itself against my forehead and swiping around my temples, gently
wiping away the sweat and moisture. Her hand was even more delicate than
Larissa’s, and her pale skin was lightly flushed.
Larissa seemed to grow towards the ceiling as she stood up,
took shaky steps back. Her height over me, lying on the ground looking straight
up, was dizzying, so I looked away, but was still too weak to move, and afraid
to stress my ribs.
“DUDE,” she said, stunned. “I THINK YOU JUST GOT PULLED BACK
FROM THE DEAD!” Her stadium-voice thrummed in my eardrums. She observed me
staidly. “YOU NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL. STAT!”
Natalie shifted onto her feet, her tone tight and driven
with worry:
“AGREED. I’LL TAKE HIM.”
“I’m fine,” I groaned.
“NO, BUDDY,” Larissa exclaimed. “THAT WASN’T ‘FINE’. THAT
WAS SOMETHING ELSE.”
She bent over me, shadowing me, her soft finger extended in
front of my face to give my chest a perfunctory, reassuring tap – accidentally
igniting rib pain.
“I KNOW I’M SO HOT I’VE GOT YOU SWOONING,” she said
matter-of-factly. “BUT GET YOURSELF CHECKED OUT BEFORE YOU ASK ME OUT, OKAY?”
*
I sat in my underwear on the patient bed while the doctor
examined me, taking my blood pressure with a tiny cuff, listening to my heart
with the oversized stethoscope. I’d just had an X-ray down the hall and was
waiting for the results to come back. My chest flared up with pain every time I
sucked in a breath, not helped by the doctor’s cold fingers exploring my
ribcage to identify my pain, trying to keep his giant, stubby fingers from
applying too much pressure to my delicate organs and shattered bones.
Natalie sat to the side of the room, in the consult chair,
explaining what had happened to the doctor – I winced inwardly as she specified
it was a strenuous course of yoga, couldn’t she have lied and said we were
mountain climbing? – but the doctor didn’t react, until she explained I’d been
unconscious and seemed to not be breathing for at least six minutes, then I
realized why she and Larissa had been so worried. Neither of them were aware I
could hold my breath for eight minutes.
The doctor shone a penlight into my eyes, having to rely on
a magnifying glass to make out my pupils and check my reflexes and awareness
were fine. From my position on the other side of the magnifying glass, his face
appeared to be blown up – as if he needed to appear any bigger to me. Finally,
the X-ray results came back, confirming his diagnosis of rib fracture from the
CPR. At Natalie’s blanched expression, he explained calmly:
“SOMETIMES IT HAPPENS. AND JERRY IS SO REMARKABLY SMALL, IT
WAS PROBABLY INEVITABLE. I COMMEND THE TRAINER FOR ATTEMPTING SUCH A DELICATE
PROCEDURE, AND OBVIOUSLY IT PAID OFF.”
He gave me some aspirin. It turned out I’d suffered a minor
heart attack. He also filled me in a a prescription for pain relief – per tiny
dosage – for my rib fracture.
“REST,” he emphasized, “DON’T OVERDO THE PHYSICAL EXERTION,
AND YOU SHOULD BE FINE IN ABOUT A MONTH.”
But I wanted to get back to work as soon as possible.
I countered:
“But my metabolism. My file says my body heals itself more
efficiently since I was miniaturized.”
“YES,” he considered, “THAT PROMOTES FASTER REPAIR OF THE
BODY’S TISSUES AND BONES. BUT ALL THE SAME, TAKE IT SLOW. WHATEVER IS WRITTEN
IN YOUR FILE IS AN INFORMED SUGGESTION, NOT A CAST-IRON DIRECTIVE. MEDICAL
SCIENCE DOESN’T FULLY UNDERSTAND YOU YET. THIS IS NOT A MEDICAL OPINION, BUT A LITTLE
GUY LIKE YOU SHOULD BE ON THE END OF A SAFETY HARNESS.”
While he wrote up a prescription for pain relief, I queried
him about the Roburfortis I was on, as if that could have made my bones break
more easily. He didn’t know what it was and had to look it up.
“IF ANYTHING, IT SHOULD STRENGTHEN YOUR BONES,” he remarked.
“NOTICE ANY DIFFERENCE SINCE YOU STARTED TAKING IT?”
“That depends. Have I grown at all in the last few months?”
I asked.
He pulled out a tape measure and stretched it out beside me
as I lay supine, drawing myself up tall as much as possible in spite of my rib
pain.
“THE TAPE DOESN’T LIE,” he said, comparing the result to the
height recorded in my medical record. That meant no.
“ONE MORE REASON TO TAKE IT SLOW. THIS MEDICATION CAN AFFECT
YOUR CARDIOVASCULAR SYSTEM. A BIG INJURY; MUSCLE TEAR, CUT, COULD LOSE A LOT OF
BLOOD AND IT COULD BE LIGHTS OUT FOR GOOD NEXT TIME.”
The end of a towel came out of nowhere, flapping over my
head and trapping me in a dark terry-cloth lined pouch. Natalie had scooped me
up off the bed with the utmost caution, unwilling to even touch me, allowing me
a generous pocket inside the towel, enabling her to carry me without exerting
any pressure on my ache-riddled body.
She left me on her car’s passenger seat while she redeemed
my prescriptions at a local pharmacy. Once the pain reliever kicked in, it settled
my pain down to the occasional sharp twinge. Shifting gingerly within the towel pouch, I was able to poke my head out
for a view of the oversized car interior, and, across the humungous gear stick,
the skint tight surface of Natalie’s yoga pant clothed hip.
She was
driving back to my apartment, the car seat jiggled beneath me as the wheels
trundled rapidly over the road. My phone lay on the seat next to me. I inwardly
debating on what to text Jennifer – if anything. Natalie said:
“IF YOU
WERE MY BOYFRIEND, YOU WOULDN’T BE UP HERE ON YOUR OWN. I COULDN’T LET YOU.”
I didn’t
look up from the phone.
“My
girlfriend and I figure it out.”
“GREAT,”
she said, but there was a twinge of doubt in her voice, “AND NOTHING ON YOUR
GIRLFRIEND – fiancée I MEAN – IT’S
YOU. I GET DIZZY JUST CONTEMPLATING
IT; HOW YOU CHOREOGRAPH ALL THIS AND KEEP YOURSELF SAFE.”
“Good
planning and I can eliminate most risks.”
She went on:
“THIS IS
GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN IF YOU KEEP COMPARING YOURSELF TO – HOW YOU PUT IT –
‘NORMAL SIZED’ PEOPLE.”
As much as
I resented her ‘bubble-wrap’ rhetoric, I empathized with it – painfully – as
well. It wasn’t difficult to imagine a normal-sized me advising a tiny, wilful
Jennifer not to take so many impulsive risks because one day she was going to
get hurt, and feeling crushed with the inevitable prospect of it. But, try as I
might, I never imagined myself in the ‘Jennifer’ position, being told off for
my risk-taking. I had never been a risk-taker growing up. Maybe living together
had made our personalities start to bleed into each other. Or maybe it went one
way; her bigger, dominant, more headstrong personality was quashing my
submissive one, and transforming me into a tiny, unquestioning clone.
Mistaking
my silence for disgruntled disagreement, Natalie’s tone softened as she went
on:
“OKAY, I
CARE,” she said, voice weirdly exasperated as if being called out for
wrongdoing. She was staring intently at the street ahead, but also not seeing
it, looking past it, “AND – NO OFFENCE TO ANYONE – BUT FROM WHAT YOU’VE LET ON
ABOUT YOUR fiancée, YIKES, I
WORRY. EVEN THOUGH I KNOW IT’S NONE OF MY BUSINESS. YOU GUYS ARE BRAVER THAN I
AM.”
“It’s my
height.”
“IT’S NOT. IF
GRANT WAS ON CARDIO MEDICATION, SAME THING. WISH YOU’D TOLD ME; THERE ARE
GENTLER YOGAS, YOU KNOW.”
“It’s not
cardio medication. And it sounds like it’s not even doing anything.”
“IT’S THE
DISTANCE THING, TOO, AND IT’S ME AND MY INSECURITIES. BUT YOU’RE FRAGILE AND
IT’S FREAKY – DON’T THINK I’M BEING CONTROVERSIAL FOR SAYING THAT. I STILL FEEL
HORRIBLE I LEFT YOU WITH THAT GIRL…”
I shook my
head and said swiftly:
“I asked
you to.”
She didn’t
reply at first. Then, after a beat:
“AND HERE’S
THE FUNNY THING, JERRY, IN SOME WAY, I…” she paused, made a disgruntled sound,
and started again.
“YOUR DATING
PROFILE; THERE WAS AN EXPERIMENT GOING ON IN MY HEAD. IF YOU WERE SITTING RIGHT
HERE, ‘NORMAL SIZE’ – THAT PHRASE AGAIN, BUT WHAT ELSE DO I CALL IT? –…I WONDER
IF I’D WISH IT WAS ME AT THE ALTAR WITH YOU.”
My chest
pulled in until I could feel my heart thudding painfully.
“Right…” I
said slowly. “But…?”
She sighed.
“THERE I’D
BE TRYING SO HARD TO KEEP YOU OUT OF DANGER, I’M NOT EVEN SURE WHAT KIND OF TOGETHERNESS
WE’D HAVE LEFT OVER. ROMANCE NEEDS SPONTANEITY…”
“So it is my height.”
"SEE..."
she bit her lip in thought, "...UM. NO – IT’S STUPID. REALLY, REALLY
STUPID. IF YOU WERE TALLER THAN ME, IT MIGHT BE OBVIOUS."
What she’d
said took a second to get through.
"What would
be obvious?"
"I…LIKE
TO BE THE PRETTY ONE IN A RELATIONSHIP.” Then, as if hearing herself, she
giggled self-consciously before she could help it, or possibly to soften the
blow.
All I could
think was, God, I love the sound of her
voice. When she sounded light and cheerful and carefree it was like she was
about to start laughing and say ‘Oh who cares? Let’s get icecream!’ Just
hearing her talk was like therapy, even if I didn’t like what she was saying.
That was how goo-goo headed my crush on her made me. And probably the fuzzying
sedative effects of the medication were kicking in.
My brow
scrunched, realizing what she’d just said.
"I’m
pretty.”
"JERRY!"
she said in a 'oh, come now!' kind of way, "UM, YES!" She giggled
again, her cheeks even growing slightly pink. Then she giggled.
“OH MY GOD,
I CAN’T BELIEVE I SAID THAT! TELL ME I’M NOT THE FIRST PERSON WHO’S EVER SAID
THAT!”
I took a
deep breath.
“What do
mean ‘pretty’, exactly?”
"YOUR
EYES. YOUR EYELASHES..." she waved a hand, laughing. "I DON'T KNOW!”
She changed
the subject.
"WHERE
I WOULD FIT WITH YOU...? MAYBE...NOWHERE?"
"That's
not..." I began, but couldn't conclude what I meant.
“IT’S
ACADEMIC,” she said, still self-conscious. “YOU’RE A SOON-TO-BE-HAPPILY-MARRIED
MAN AND I AM A SOON-TO-BE-HAPPILY-ATTENDING-YOUR-WEDDING UM…PERSON.”
“You’re a
little more than just a ‘person’ to me,” I ventured.
“I…FEEL
LIKE YOUR BABYSITTER SOMETIMES.”
She somehow
found new and creative ways to shock my ego. Her dulcet, earnest innocence made
it somehow even more painful than if she’d closed the door outright with a
glare. Her smiles and laughter, and voice brimming with love.
God, I really am a masochist, I thought. Surely only a masochist
would continue to chase her like this, hoping for a little something more than
she was offering.
The car
rolled up outside my apartment and she bundled me up in the towel and carefully
carried me inside.
“IT’S
CUTE,” she said approvingly, glancing around the confined spaces, then cast me
a bashful look. “SORRY…”
I shrugged
a shoulder, trying not to move too much.
“It is.”
I was
placed down to rest on my bed, and she curling the sheet over me somewhat maternally.
Then she paused. Her profile unfocused. I blinked, pushing back the oncoming
sedation.
“Thanks for
taking me home,” I said.
“NO MORE
STUNTS. YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE ME A
HEART ATTACK.”
I reached
up, beckoning with my hand for her to come closer.
“WHAT?” she
said shyly, getting low.
I was on my
feet, approaching her face to kiss her. She ducked, and then pet my hair as her
great form rose above the bed again.
“CATCH YOU
SOME OTHER TIME, JERRY.” She moved to the door. The car pulled away.
She’d left
my phone nearby. I pulled it towards me and rang Larissa, letting her know I
was fine, but she instructed me to get some sleep as I was slurring my words. I
pushed the phone aside, and my eyelids began to droop with medication-induced fatigue…