I drank the potion and the Love drank champagne and before we knew it I was a whale in the ocean and before we knew that she was here. Looking up at us. A ball of flesh so sweet I could have sucked her. And I did when her nose ran and I did again when nobody was looking. And we took her home and we looked at each other with saucer eyes and that was it, the world was new, we were somewhere else, a place where everything seemed the same, but quite simply was not.
The shapes were different and my edges were peach-fuzz and she took my flesh with a baby grunt and then asked for my still-beating heart and I gave her that too, gladly, though it was strange to give it to someone I’d only just met.
She was utterly someone, someone new: perhaps we’d expected to know her immediately, that she would somehow resemble us. Of course not. And yet, she was familiar. She was a character from a dream – someone, but not someone. The house you grew up on that is that house, but is also the smoking twins’ house from The City of Lost Children.
And in the mornings her face was so close and her eyes open and she looked like a foetus or a very attractive alien and I found myself kissing her wildly and missing her even when she was sleeping.
And the days were nights and the weeks disappeared and I couldn’t speak in sentences and my hair grew to my waist and I forgot what I looked like and when I looked in the mirror my face was all Picasso and my body too and it felt like I’d been taken apart and put back together again.
And the mornings (which were evenings) brought on delirious joys and the nights (which were days) brought on terrors beyond my wildest nightmares; news reports and Trainspotting and assorted world sadnesses plagued the interior of my eyelids like a sick teledex - the fragility of her, her pure wormlike untouchedness turned me to shards of angst in that cubist mirror. I took showers at dinnertime (which was lunchtime) and missed her as the water fell and felt dizzy at the thought of the fragility. Was I a good enough guardian of it? I prayed I would never drop her. I sat on the couch and sprinkler-cried like a cartoon character thinking of all the things she would live, would she play tennis, what would her laugh sound like, would she make a cardboard cutout one day for a boy in the shape of a love heart with their initials on it all sorts of twinkling glitter-glue colours and then put it in his locker only to have him laugh and call it Gay, would she get married, would she be vegetarian – she was here – look – breathing – she was alive and one day would die, and so would I. The beauty and intensity and craziness of it all just made the faucets spurt and spurt.
And then that died down a bit and the peach-fuzz edges began to morph again into more solid outlines, still sketchy and as-yet-un-coloured-in, but outlines nonetheless. Reality slowly returned to the Warren. Well anyway the curious little life in here seemed to be becoming Real.