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Early 21st century. Springtime.

Early one afternoon, on the east coast of some country, at a small liberal arts college, in an old, venerable, and ruinous stone building, on the top story, three floors up, in an English class of about fifteen people, there was a young woman who seated herself, just after class started, at the back of the room. Directly across the circle of seats there was a young man listening carefully to the professor, and studiously scratching keywords and key phrases in his notebook. The first time she caught his eye, he looked away quickly, indifferently. Two days later, in the same class, she caught his eye again, and this time he looked away deliberately, irritably.

But the third day she met him after class, and they started talking.

He began to lend her some of his books, and she sent them back, dogeared and scribbled in the margins and splotched all over with red and black ink – she knew what she liked and disliked. She was far from squeamish, and far from reluctant in giving her views and opinions on books, films, and people. Their tastes didn’t always match – his opinions on most subjects, and in many ways, were far less orderly, regular, and final than hers – but the two stayed together. They liked each other. They got along. And soon enough they had started to live together.

There were certain irregularities in their relationship that the young man wouldn't understand until years later. The young woman’s needs – sexual needs, above all – were extraordinary. Always there was the slightest hint, at times, that he was smaller. That his efforts themselves were too small to satisfy her, were unnecessary, because her own abilities were so huge and generous she could easily perform for the two of them. 

At certain times, he shrank from her body. He would make various excuses, and then go to sleep. But then, in his nightmares, he would dream of her body growing to impossible lengths, dwarfing and engulfing his own. Sometimes his kicking or sleep-talking woke her up, and they would talk for a while, in the dark. They would make love in a normal way, and he’d remember that he loved her. And this love was strong. Always, it overcame whatever misgivings or insecurities – what else could they be? – that he felt.


Christmas Eve, one year later.

Through the screen of whiteness, one young couple could be seen trudging back to their snow-covered car. The young man dug around inside for an ice scraper, while the girl stood nearby, shuffling her boots around and rubbing her arms to keep warm.

She reached out her gloved hand, and wiped some of the snowflakes from his long eyelashes. And then she must have whispered something, because she leaned in closely, balancing herself on one boot, her cheek almost touching his own. Looking up at the dark, frozen sky and holding his winter cap with his free hand, he paused. She backed away from the car a few paces and watched him. Her lips moved, but whatever she said was muffled and then lost in the soft, unbroken sounds of the snowfall.

A few moments later, they pulled a double set of crosscountry skis out of the trunk, a pair custom-made for the two of them, and abandoned the car for another day. After only a few moments, they were little more than two shapeless black smears on a clear white canvas. After a minute, the snow had swallowed up their voices and their laughter. And after five minutes, even their tracks were wiped out.


Summer, two years later.

In a green woodland cabin, upstate, she and the young man, now married, spent a full week hiking, fishing, swimming, talking, drinking, and barbecuing fish beside a clear freshwater lake. Early in the morning, before sunrise, on the fifth night, when the water was as still as glass and as cool, they closed the screen-doors behind them and, tiptoeing down to the lake, (stark naked and smiling,) leapt into the water together with a loud splash.

Two miles away, a few deer perked up their ears, listening. All the fish scattered, and hid themselves in their holes, or their nesting grounds. The sleepy songbirds hovered for a moment, startled from their perches, and then settled down again. They dove down into the water, and the lakewater abolished all trace of them, like snow. Twenty feet away, they surfaced again, and came closer to the lakeshore, under a shady, overhanging tree.

As they lay together on the grassy bank, before dawn, the man experienced those old feelings of smallness and inadequacy for the last time. But this time, it was like his dreams. For one hour, he convinced himself that he was hallucinating – his pleasure was so intensely felt, and maybe hers also (no thanks to him), that he simply didn’t have the mental resources or stamina to understand, describe, and evaluate what was happening to him.

Her breasts were definitely larger, her tongue dominated his, and only with an extreme effort of strength and will was he able to hold on to her ass-cheeks, and stay under her. She was slipping from him, or he was slipping too deeply into her. But then it was all over, and she slept, murmuring something, sweet nothings, contentedly to herself; and as she slept, he lay gasping on the green bank beside her – shaken, annihilated, ashamed.

In an hour, everything returned to normal, and the rest of the week passed as it did, without strange incident. Ten months later, the young woman had a daughter.


Two years later.

Holly came home from her new teaching job, at school, and her husband met her at the door. He told her that he was now out of work. He was fired. His old boss had dismissed him that afternoon, on a week’s notice, and the weekly checks would stop coming after four months.

One month passed, and then two months, four months, and a year without change. Two years passed, and he was still out of work. As the days and years continued to slip by, despair began to set in. The flower garden in the backyard became overgrown. Weeds choked the marigolds and lamb’s ears, and each of the smaller plants. Vermin infested the roses and hydrangeas. Rabbits and chipmunks, robins and sparrows feasted on the lettuce and flower blossoms. The bees disappeared, and the grass in places dried up and died.

During the day, while his wife was at work, he walked from room to room, aimlessly turning on the television, purposelessly opening a book, and uselessly going to sleep. Holly changed her stance toward him. Little by little, she became ashamed of her husband. Their relationship turned from dysfunctional to hostile to unsustainable. Fights were frequent.

Then, finally, there was one day. She had come home from school to find her husband, fast asleep in her own bed, fully dressed, with her laptop near his head. Liquor was spilled on the floor, and some of her clothes were stained. In a rage, feeling angrier than she’d ever remembered, Holly shook him roughly with her hands, and lightly kicked him in the back with her shoe. He groaned, and sat up in bed, blearily trying to focus his eyes and mind on the woman in front of him. It was a pitiful sight. Then he spoke.

"Get away! Get away from me! Don't come near me!"

"Honey?"

“I’m leaving…,” he said, completely hammered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m leaving—You.

“You’re drunk.”

“No.” His eyes were beginning to focus, and he reached over and handed her the computer. “I mean it.”

“What is this? What am I looking at?”

“What is this?” he repeated, with emphasis. “You tell me. Tiny people? Shrunken…? Murdered...and crushed? And you get off on this stuff? You tell me what's going on.”

“You’ve been snooping through my emails.”

“No.”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

“Oh, yeah? Just like that?”

“Just like…that!” he slapped his thigh with the flat of his hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, anyway. You’re being unreasonable. This is unreasonable. Where would you go?”

“I don’t know! It doesn’t matter!”

“Look at yourself! You’ve got a nerve. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, and look at you! Wasted. You sorry little man. Drunk as a pissant, with nowhere to go – accusing me of God only knows what. You should be ashamed.”

He pointed at the screen. “That—whatever that—is,“ he said, thrusting his finger toward it three times. “I saw everything. I saw the photos, the stories. I don’t know you.”

Holly was silent for a moment, and stared hard into the hollow of his back as he tripped on the threshold. “You don’t know me. You’re right. But I thought we could have worked this out between us, somehow. I loved you, once, in a way.”

“But…”

“Yes, but…”

“I can’t even look at your face anymore.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Goodbye, Holly.”

“Goodbye.”

As her husband stumbled wearily and soggily out of the room, feeling along the wall for a handhold, turning the corner into his own room, Holly followed him, several steps behind.

He packed his bags noisily, throwing clothes and accessories pell-mell into a few suitcases. Holly watched him silently from the door, until he was ready.

“You’ll be back later tonight,” she told him.

He shook his head, but was too groggy to muster a response. He stopped for a moment, thinking. “Why won’t you defend yourself?” he asked.

“What’s to defend?”

“The photos.”

“Were they real, you mean?”

“They were changed...doctored... Why did you make them?”

“If I understand what you’re asking me – and it’s difficult, because you’re drunk – then no, they weren’t altered in any way. Yes, this is very real. I’m being honest with you.”

"You're a liar. And you disgust me,” he sniffed, and went on working.

“I’m beginning to feel much the same way about you,” said Holly, the bile rising in her throat.

She let him finish, and waited downstairs for him at the open door. He passed her without speaking; and as he passed, she whispered in his ear, “You’ll be back by tomorrow night at the latest.”

“Not a chance,” he responded.

“Just wait.”

Early the next morning, the police brought her husband to her door. He was arrested in the next town for vagrancy, and faced a court appearance early the next month. Holly thanked them, and when they were gone, led her husband gently by the hand upstairs to his room, where he fell asleep immediately.

Two weeks later, after he paid his fine, he disappeared again. Except, this time, no one brought him back.

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