On set, day twenty-something.

It had been a long day and we were currently taking a break between takes. The actors cleared the scene while some carpenters and technicians were dismantling some structures. Meanwhile, I had wandered off seeking a quiet backdrop to call Raf and let him know when we’d be done so he could drive in pick me up, and take me to the airport to fly me back home.

I liked to knock down all my phone calls between shooting breaks; it made me feel important around the cast and crew seen engaged in many phone calls, and maybe beguile some relevant industry figure that I was an incredibly sought after person of interest.

There was one other phone call I wanted to make before I clocked out and headed home – and it was one I really didn’t want to make once I got home.

“Hey!" I said, trying to sound like I was on top of the world. "It’s Jerry Mousseau,” Then I quickly added, “we met on the dating site. I stayed at your place—”

“Oh, Jerry, of course I haven’t forgotten you!”

My heart swelled at Natalie’s effervescent voice. When she was thrilled it broke with a small scratchy squeak that was strangely erotic. I could just picture her beaming her opalescent smile like she was sitting in front of me.

She went on:

“How are you doing now? How did it all pan out?”

“Where do I begin? I’m in St Palma right now, soaking up the ‘sometimes’ sun and – oh hey, I nearly forgot, I’m acting in a film now!”

She had a gorgeous laugh; vibrant and unpretentious. I drank it in like cool water on a simmering day.

“That’s so great! But why am I not surprised?” she said. “First time I ever saw you it was on screen. So, just when are you planning on making your red carpet debut, Mr Mousseau?”

The ground quaked as a pair of giant's boots stomped right past my eyeline, shoelaces flicking dangerously. I flinched, hoping the quaking didn't pass through the phone line to her end.

"Hey!" I yelled. The giant barely threw a look over their shoulder. Unless you were a lead actor, you weren't shown much special attention.

"--What's going on over there?" came Natalie's voice, slightly concerned.

"Never mind me, what are you doing these days?”

“Guess what? I’m in St Palma! Both struck by the same bolt of inspiration, huh?  – great minds.”

I had a nanosecond to decide how to receive this information, and chose surprise.

“Oh, wow—!” – and nearly said ‘small world’ (good grief) but managed to stop myself—

“Small world, right?” she said. And before I could answer she went on: “I skipped campus to study here at SPU. Not quite as glamorous as you, but I can be up here with my boyfriend, which is really…nice."

A beat. The white noise of crew member discussion bubbled at my back.

"Sounds busy," Natalie noted.

"Uh huh," I sighed. "So, you're in a relationship?"

“That’s right. Grant and I have been dating now for – Gawd, like – ” she seemed to think for a moment, “four months? Let me think…When did I last see you—?”

“Gone and over before you know it,” I sighed. “Ever since I’ve been up here, I’ve barely had time to stop and think.”

“That’s your excuse for not getting in touch before now?” she jibed. “You’re a big, important movie star? Better watch it doesn’t go to your head!”

“Yeah…I’m sorry, Natalie,” I said sincerely. “A lot of things got in the way.”

“It’s fine!” she said. “Things must be moving so fast for you. When we last spoke, you were in a sort of in-between place and not quite sure what your heart was telling you...?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“So, what happened? You just appeared to run out the door on me, big guy.” She said it teasingly, but – was I imagining it? – there was something in her voice; an undercurrent of something genuinely curious, but restrained.

She then told me about how she had to talk to police after I'd left – correction, been snatched – from her house. It didn’t sound like she had a detailed picture of how I’d spent the month I was at Samantha’s house, except that she suspected something weird was up.

“I was worried,” she admitted. “I mean, since you left me no number to contact you. But it worked out?”

“Not with Samantha,” I said, now secretly keen to get off the subject, “but my ex-girlfriend and I are back together. She’s home.”

"I may be the one behind the eight ball here," the words came slower, "but, is this the same ex-girlfriend you were telling me about...?"

"Well,” I said, wringing my hands, hating to remember what exactly I had said, "I made her sound like some kind of two dimensional cartoon character. But she'd different in real life."

"Oh," Natalie said, sounding like she was smiling again, possibly not fully understanding, but all the same, seeming relieved. "Bumpy road, but you got there."

“With your help,” I said suddenly. “I really appreciate it, Natalie, and, uh…” I cleared my throat, “…there was a…something I needed to tell you…my girlfriend and I just got engaged, and I’d really like it if you could…” I took a quick breath, “…want to invite you to our wedding, if you happen to—”

“Oh my God!” she gushed. “That is so wonderful! Really, Jerry, I’d love to.”

“Thanks,” I said, somewhat mechanically. What did I expect her to say? – Oh no, has the S.S. Jerry really sailed out of the harbor? Am I too late?

I glared at the ground, disgusted with myself.

She was jumping ahead of me:

“When are you holding the ceremony?”

“We don’t know yet,” I replied, feeling stupid all of a sudden, “we have to figure out size before we can move forward to the next stage.”

Maybe sensing my anxiety, she said in a consoling way:

“Don’t stress out over those little details, okay? Pay too much attention to size and...you’ll miss the full picture.”

“It’s also about her,” I said, too quickly, and then paced myself. “I don’t want to run the whole show.”

“But – I don’t know – some girls might like that, have their man take care of it all. And you’re a pretty capable little mover these days aren’t you? Leaving home, starting a new job…”

Still can’t open a refrigerator, though, I thought before I could help myself.

She said something I didn’t catch; her voice segueing back into my awareness:

…and,” her voice slowed for emphasis, “surely it wouldn’t be outside your abilities to meet up soon, would it?”

I blinked.

“When are you free?”

“Well, when are you free, Mr. Movie Star? How about the weekend after next?”

I heaved a breath.

“I’ve got yoga on Saturday, and I can’t shift it.”

It was forecast to be warm that day, and for whatever reason, Larissa said our workout needed the warmth.

“You take yoga?” Natalie interrupted. It was a hobby of hers. “What did I say; great minds!”

“Just one session. I’ve never done it before.”

“Well, what would you say if I was your yoga buddy for the day? Make you feel not so new at it?”

“I’ll let my personal trainer know. But if you came as my chaperone I’m sure she’d let you buddy with me.”

“Oh – I’m Mr. Jerry Mousseau’s chaperone now!” she said faux self-importance. “Call it a date!”

“Absolutely.”

I sighed inwardly. Whatever it was we were doing that day, it probably would not be a ‘date’ – as much as I secretly wanted to. We said our goodbyes and she was gone and it was just me again, before the director’s assistant called me back onto set.

*

“YOU NEED A WAKE UP.”

I’d been daydreaming and now once again found myself supported on all sides by the soft interior fabric of the dark drawstring pouch. My shoulders bumped into the thin walls as the pouch slid and jostled back and forth. An announcement blared over the intercom: one of the other flights was now boarding and passengers were being directed to the correct departure terminal. My flight wouldn’t be long now.

The smell of hot food and coffee wafted into the pouch opening just above my head, interrupted by Raf’s cologne.

Gripping fistfuls of the fabric lining, I poked my head up out of the drawstring opening to be met with the sweeping white airport lounge, people bustling past in all directions over the polished tract of flooring, and snatches of buzzing conversation. No one noticed me, and even as I stared, I picked out a couple of other travellers with small bags or wallets hanging from straps around their necks, carrying not little people but passports or currency or cameras.

“Sorry?” I said, blinking around.

“YOU LOOK TIRED, CHIEF. COFFEE?”

It was the evening, but in St Palma, time of day was no barrier for caffeine. Not that I needed it; I’d been slowly chugging Kolade over the course of the day to keep pepped up.

“No thanks, Raf. Maybe I’ll have something on the plane.”

“SURE? I COULD GO FOR AN ESPRESSO.”

“Get yourself something. I don’t want to need the restroom mid-flight.”

He bought a coffee from one of the airport cafés, but quickly decided I needed safekeeping away from his chest while he drank it, so none spilled on me.

The pouch was lifted from his neck and turned upside down and I slid out gently into the palm of one of his enormous hands. The other cupped around me to shield me from view as I was lowered down his body and slipped inside the hip pocket of his jeans. The world went dim as my feet settled at the base of the pocket, which pressed around me like a rugged sleeping bag. Then I was moving around blindly with his thigh as he took each juddering stride. When his foot touched down on the hard floor, the impact coursed up my spine. It was like riding horseback, but sideways, and with a sack over my head.

Since I mentioned it, after he drained his coffee he took me into the restroom, and in a cubicle, put me down on the seat, with a square of toilet paper to stand on, and he turned away while I relieved myself into the oversize bowl.

Past the boarding gates, and through the glass walled jet bridge into the plane, he handed me and my booster seat over to a flight attendant who was designated to look out for me during the flight. She took me to my seat; located near the galley. I had no carry-on this time; my stuff was back at the apartment.

The flight attendant carried me to my normal-sized seat, strapping the booster in, giving me earbuds and TV screen control. It was difficult to watch a movie; I kept focusing on the actor and the line delivery. Then I came to, to find half the movie was over; my brain kept staggering off into nothingness, floating higher than the cloudy dream world out the window. I hadn’t only refrained from coffee that day, but also Kolade, and having since had it every morning to pep me for work, my nervous system noticed the absence.

But I couldn’t achieve proper sleep, my mind just drifted, I snapped awake again, then drifted. Then snapped awake.

It was dark outside when the announcement came over the speaker that we were descending, the upward rush pushed against the plane as we came down, then the bump of landing.

Once most of the passengers had exited the plane, a flight attendant detached my booster seat and carried me over the jet bridge, transferring me to a customer assistance officer, who took me over the automated people mover. The tall glass windows scrolled by before we reached the arrival gate.

With the bright flare of her perfume, the hairs on my arms stood to attention.

“Hi,” suddenly feeling very small, half my size.

Appearing to the side of the cart, she undid the booster harness and then her thumb and middle dug beneath my armpits and squeezed my chest before lifting me up into the air. Her lips expanded rapidly in my view and then covered everything as she drew me in for an unselfconscious kiss, at the same time, massaging my ribcage between her fingertips, a simulation of a crushing hug. I drank in her recognizable perfume while her lipstick caressed and oiled my face and it occurred to me she had neatened herself up a little beforehand.

Actually, that was an understatement. She seemed to glow from within and radiate sensual warmth over my hug-constricted body, totally powerless and exposed to her fierce, barely contained lust.

“YOU’RE MINE AGAIN, LITTLE PET,” her voice rumbled right in my ear.

“Jen…you don’t have to…ugh…” I whimpered, squirming between her forceful fingertips as they made their immodest exploration of my body.

The customer assistance officer – who had not made any direct physical contact with me – watched with wonder at the cosy familiarity with which Jen handled my little body, like a cherished toy, and then took the cart one way while we went another, out through the airport.

*

Back home, I made myself a bath, put on a pair of pyjama shorts and afterwards, wandered through the rooms of the house, marvelling at the expansive floor space compared to my apartment, which I’d never really noticed before.

Bathed, I walked back out into the living room. The oven hummed from the kitchen, where Jen was making up dinner, baked salmon. She must have glimpsed me entering from the corridor.

“HEY,” she called out. “I COULD USE A LITTLE COOKING ASSISTANT OVER HERE.”

I hesitated. She was usually happy to accomplish all the cooking on her own – she loved cooking. Not that I couldn’t cook; she wasn’t the only food lover in the household; and I had capably cooked for myself before I’d shrunk, but it wasn’t clear what place there was for me in the kitchen.

“What do you need me to help you with?”

“JUST SO YOU KNOW, I’VE GOT EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL,” she said lightly, “BUT IT’S NICE; WE CAN COOK TOGETHER.” Maybe my hesitance had sounded in my tone. She paused. “YOU DON’T WANT TO?”

“Just tell me what I can do.”

She soon had me up on the kitchen counter with the end of a long thin knife up above my head, which I swung repeatedly down upon a bok choy and shallots like a tiny vegetable executioner.  When I finished and turned to ask her for the next vegetable, she was leaning against the counter, watching me with the faintest smile. My brow creased; I assumed she was about to make fun of me for ‘executing’ the shallots wrong.

“What?” I grunted, feeling self-conscious.

“OH, NOTHING. VERY SPICY LITTLE MAN, THAT’S ALL. DO I GET A TASTE TEST?”

She poked her tongue out at me.

I concentrated on the vegetables again.

“Trust you to get hot to a knife being swung around.”

“YOU DON’T FEEL THAT HEAT THAT I’M FEELING?”

“It’s the oven.”

She turned back to the baking dish she was lining with paper, and her tone became serious:

“SO TELL ME ABOUT YOUR NEIGHBORS; WHAT’S IT LIKE UP THERE –LOUD?”

“Kinda loud outside.” Then I emphasized: “But very peaceful inside.”

“HMM. AND I BET THE PEOPLE ARE CRAZY.”

“Watch your language! They’re…different.”

Once dinner was ready, I sat up at my usual place at the dining table, at a right angle from Jen’s usual seat, on the dining mat where my plate would have been, if I’d been seated at the table normal size. In the middle of the table, tongues of candlelight wobbled and flickered on their white wax stalks upon a wrought iron holder.

Her nail tip snapped briskly against the wood grain of the tabletop to get my attention.

“YOU’RE GOING TO SIT RIGHT HERE AND EAT FROM MY PLATE.”

I looked up into her green eyes, which returned my look with calm expectation.

“What? Why?”

“BECAUSE IT’S FUN. AND I’D LIKE IT IF YOU DID.”

When I looked at her unsurely, she added:

“JUST TONIGHT.”

I crawled over the table on my hands and knees over to the side of her plate, while she began cutting up slices off her meal and sliding them over into a neat pile at the nearest edge of the plate. I speared it up with toothpicks, and satisfied, the huge glistening silver fork then swept around, shovelling up portions of larger, sliced up food. As I went in to lance up more food on my toothpicks, I had to watch not to get my hands caught in her fork prongs as the giant utensil drove itself through the meal like a plow.

How strange that lurking just behind the beautiful veneer there was a great machine, and anything close to my size that went in there was invariably crushed, ripped apart, and disposed of into an acid-filled waste pit. I couldn’t ignore the soft smacking sound of morsels being squashed down, and the sound of air displacing via the muscular flex of her throat as she swallowed.

For her, this might have been romantic, but for me, it was a little unnerving. This may have been why I ate more slowly than usual, meditating on every bite that was acoustically magnified right over my head. She finished before me, and while I chewed the last of my salmon, something hard nudged over my scalp. The faintly food-greased fork tip was lightly brushing through my hair teasingly, and then it lightly scratched down under my jaw, probing my throat. My spine tingled.

“LUCKY YOU,” she said dryly, “NO WASHING UP.”

“Only fair – I didn’t use a plate or cutlery.”

Once I finished, she took the kitchenware over to the sink.

“THERE’S PLENTY ELSE YOU CAN DO FOR ME.”

We moved to the bedroom. ‘Moved’ meaning, she snatched me up and flew me there.