It’s the perfect place for a little man.
The best design has a balcony perfect for romantic visits and chats, or a favorite window for the same purpose. So many times I’ve pictured myself kneeling by that little home, carefully so I don’t accidentally bump into it and send it sliding backwards and hitting the wall against which it’s placed. A wall in my bedroom, of course. As I position myself, my little man comes out to greet me (it’s odd to imagine we are ever apart, but sometimes… where I’m going, he can’t follow).
(That’s one of the most irritating lines from “Casablanca”, by the way. “Ilsa, I’m going to decide your little life for you. I’m gonna go off and fight Nazis, and that’s something you little women aren’t allowed to do. Never mind there are already women out there risking their lives and killing the enemy left and right. You have to go home and play housewife for your brave husband.” Fucking jerk.)
Where was I? Ah, yes… he comes out and greets me with a smile, and we talk. Sometimes we talk for hours, and I listen to details of his life, which I love. I can hear about his life when he was a big guy for hours, and then ask him questions about how he likes it now that it’s so different because of his size.
“Tell me about your big, important job again, little one. Did you like ordering people about? Telling them what they were going to do?”
“It was a job just like any other, my giantess.”
“And now that your voice has been taken away and replaced with those tiny squeaks, how does that feel?”
“I don’t squeak! I’m not a mouse.”
“That’s true. Mice are larger.”
There’s also little porch where I can place a swing for him that I can move just with the wind of my breath, and the boom of my nearby steps, and many rooms where I can stash his little manly furnishings, tools, books, and all those things that almost make him feel normal sized; that is, until I drop by for a visit. When he waits for me sitting in his swing, it begins to shake and rock as I come nearer. When I drop down to the floor and rest my face on my hands, he has to jump off it, because my breath as I talk will send it back and forth in a stronger arch. And then he comes down those tiny steps that are purposely made so large to him, he has to come down each, one by one… like a small child.
And when he walks over to my lips to kiss me, I’m ready for him.