He said, I don’t understand your concept of taking up too much space.
She doesn’t really understand it, either.
She just knows
What is too much space, anyway.
What is space as it relates to the human body at all?
She measures her space in pounds and inches. Eighty-three-point-three pounds. Twenty-one inch waist. Thirteen inch thighs. But what does that mean? Why does it matter?
Is she the space between her thighs, the daylight shining through? [Subtle references are important, you know.] Or is she the space her thighs take up when she sits in the chair – her chair – and her thighs expand to roughly the size of Texas? Does she take up more space in that moment? Does it change the amount of space she occupies at all?
He says, The amount of physical space you take up in that chair has diminished.
She doesn’t know why this is Important TM. But it is.
She takes up too much space.
That is all she knows.
she is awkward
Small on the inside. Large on the outside.
She is a reverse Tardis.
he asks her
to tell him
If you die you will be effectively killing me too.
It’s in all the ways and all the things and all she knows is that she is too much too much too much.
Always too much.
She wants to be able to explain. She wants to say, But don’t you see? Can’t you understand? I have to be smaller. I have to be.
But she doesn’t quite know how to make the words come out.
Or how to say,
I need to be SmallTinyInsignificantNothingNothingNothing.
Or how to say,
I need the number to get smaller smaller smaller until it’s barely a number at all.
He says, You’re not George’s grandmother. You’re not in George’s Marvellous Medicine. You aren’t going to get smaller and smaller and smaller until you disappear.
She doesn’t say it
But she thinks,
Yes. That’s true. But I will die. And maybe