Shrinking boyfriend stories

Added: Armondo Bueno - Date: 08.01.2022 23:45 - Views: 21268 - Clicks: 3695

My husband is squirming again. Poor Morris. Of course I feel him down there, all his obstinate wriggling. Every leg spasm. Each feeble twitch. Much tinier even than he was as a boy. Pillowing the midlife insulation I still call my hip bone with his doll-sized chicken legs, he soon rolls off, founders, rests.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

Having fun. A pop tune, maybe? Knees clenched, my tiny husband rockets off my leg in the miniature swing I deed for him—arcing out, rappelling hip to hind—spelunking my most sensitive hollows. For the time being, Morris was an unusually tiny ant.

Or atomic. Sure, his size was unprecedented. Even for the record books. But, for the first time in a year, my learning curve was set to pause. I finally knew how small to trim a short stack of quilted, two-ply TP for him. What size morsels to pile on our newly purchased toy store plates.

As for his kid-sized, baby-sized, then doll-sized clothes? I no longer had to alter hems and seams. I tucked my sewing machine back under its cover with a sigh of relief.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

Once Morris stopped shrinking, there was hope, for a time, that the process might reverse itself. That he might return to his old self. A year later, the array of specialists remains stumped. They review the notes in his file. Try to make the list of symptoms add up. No disease or toxin.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

Even his history of radiation is normal for a middle-aged man from Denver with two long-healed childhood fractures and average Shrinking boyfriend stories decay. Cosmic rays. Strange spider bites. Spiritual and alien visitations. But my husband recalls nothing odd worth sharing. For all intents and purposes, my husband is now just an Shrinking boyfriend stories tiny man.

Minus the buff plasticized muscles or the full head of hair. I stare at him. At the tiny vacant smile on his face. But the smile is new or, more precisely, sits anew on his now-reduced face. His every gesture, once familiar, has become strange to me. And, letting my logic play out, if Morris knew he was singing—which is to say, if my once transparent husband was now skilled at pretense—was it also possible that he knew what caused the onset of his condition?

For the first time in a year, I cautiously considered an incautious idea: was it possible that, though Morris said otherwise, he was happy living as an undersized man? A tiny man? His favorite food is still soft-boiled eggs. His preferred sport: baseball. Even now, we still enjoy a morning grope on Sundays with regular, if now routine, care. All of them arranged by size in neat rows. Instead, he watches from inside the house in the comfort of our window seat as I take my time cutting down the grass—row by row, inch by inch—a pattern that now marks my life.

Barometric shifts. Dew point fluctuations. The paths of stars. One day, Morris was awakened in our bed by a tingle in his fingers, a mild electric buzzing in his earlobes and the tips of his toes, which, after soaking in our newly tiled bath, he decided had nothing to do with Date Night the prior evening. He considered his mild hangover. At your age I meanshe said. We all shrink eventually.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

She drew a sample of blood, and after a brief consultation with the doctor, Morris was referred to a neurologist. Two weeks later, the tests with the neurologist came back inconclusive, and Morris and I both noticed that his clothes, once tight around his ripening middle-aged edges, had grown visibly baggy. At first, I thought that his pants—the hems curtained his ankles—were simply sagging low at the waist.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

Within a week, the loss was five inches. Soon, it was ten. Then the creeping loss went exponential. We dodged and banked and took curves too tightly. We cursed. We became blistered and worn from trying to outpace the inevitable.

There were pills and infusions. A gut-wrenching caloric uptick for Morris. Drives and flights to specialists out of state. More tests than I can remember or name. We played it fierce. We held hands until I had no choice but to hold his hand, suddenly child-sized, in my own.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

Our hands pancake-stacked. Oddly apart. What shocked me every morning? He never looked like a birthday balloon slowly losing air. He was just a new man each day.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

A smaller man. A reduced man. A man who had the same face at two hundred pounds that he did at one hundred twenty. The frame beneath: sinewy, knobby-kneed, tough. Especially from toddlers on the loose. An abrupt, sewery end. Like an unwanted dog that wanders out an open gate, might the universe propel Morris to his natural conclusion? Get it? He has the oversized confidence of a miniature man. I laugh at his joke. Everyone laughs at his jokes: you have to laugh when a tiny man jokes. Morris says all kinds of things while he rides at my hip.

His monologue never wavers. He now notes, for instance, that his size is an unexpected gift: he can see things he never saw before. Gestures are amplified—my subtlest movements carry enormous meaning. He now appreciates his tiny place in the universe: how small it is. And yet, proportionately, still how large. Even time seems to pass more slowly. He appreciates how long it takes to turn the of a book and so re every word closely; how long to eat a piece of cheese, so he savors every crumb.

Sometimes, he wonders, if his inexplicable change is the result of an intervention by nature: if everyone were as tiny as he, after all, the human impact on the planet would be diminished at once. Did his altered size represent a much-needed environmental shift? I put my hand on his back to steady him, to soothe him.

I pat his head, whisper for him to wait. Twenty minutes later, I stand and stretch after filing a meter reading with the local gas company. The to-do list is only half scratched off. How long did he have? I still often wonder. There is no way to predict the path of his metamorphosis, and it has occurred to Shrinking boyfriend stories, not for the first time, that he made me make this promise: if he continued shrinking—if one day, I could extinguish him with the fleshy tip of my index finger—that I go and just get on with it.

Put that Shrinking boyfriend stories to its proper use. What kind of lifehe squeaked, was a tiny, microscopic life? Optimistically, for a time, I thought that there might be unexpected benefits of having a twelve-inch husband. In past years, when Morris rolled over for our Sunday morning recreationals, his morning lofty bobbing against my leg, it was all too easy to thoughtlessly spoon to my side, let him get on with business.

Since his change, though, all bets are off. Early on, Morris shared my excitement. With a grin, he set out exploring, an adventurer hunting for my rumored G-spot—a curious sensation to have a tiny man inside you, pushing buttons, flicking levers, testing the fuses of my varied breakers—until one afternoon I unintentionally convulsed, sealing him to my cervix, and found myself scooping him out with my index finger like a used prophylactic sponge.

But he could attend to my coxswain with his tiny paws. We tried our best, in short, but our outmatched sizes were unwieldy.

Shrinking boyfriend stories

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‘shrinking’ stories