The Pygmy Giant

by John Baker

I met her when the sun shone only in the summer. She was young and every word she spoke was the truth. Every kiss was kissed with the perfect amount of pressure and lasted the perfect amount of time.

Some stuff happened and changed her, irreversible stuff which probably changed me too. More and more we’d argue and then the kisses seemed to last a second or two too long or too short or would be too heavy or too light. The weather started to get hotter and the days were longer.

A few years later we stopped having winters. Then she’d only kiss me to work out if I’d been smoking. I disliked the fact that it took her much longer to get ready than it used to and that she still wouldn’t look as good as she did. Arguments turned into throwing things, then punching things, then hitting each other. Bruises formed where smiles used to be and eyes wobbled behind a build up of tears. Then she turned into a whore.

I watched her biting on his lip and then staring into his eyes. I knew the look she gave him. It was the one I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was the one which led to me lying in my bed feeling like a rock star. I thought maybe I was dying then; slowly being burned to death as I sweated, watching her give him that look. I wanted to throw my heart into her lap so she could watch it struggle to stay alive but we didn’t discuss our feelings anymore.

For the last few months she did her thing, I did mine and sometimes we did our things together – it was hard to keep up and it was too hot to argue anymore so that’s how things were. There was one last day before the end when we could still just about stand each other. But the day after that the sun’s blaze filled the horizon. I was blind and blistered. It was freezing and black not long after.

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John Baker, 25, writes from Newcastle-upon-Tyne