The Pygmy Giant

by Natalie Bowers

You hate it that she can’t remember the moment you met.

‘Life was mad back then,’ she says. ‘What’s important is that I can remember all the moments since. Look.’ She’s on her knees, reaching under the bed, shuffling things around like she’s doing a sliding puzzle. ‘They’re in here: cinema stubs, dinner receipts, the little cards that came with the flowers you sent. Even that parking ticket we got on honeymoon.’ She smiles, settles the box on her thighs, palms away the dust.

‘Stop,’ you say as you watch the dust grey the carpet. ‘Don’t open it. Not yet.’

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Natalie Bowers: gregarious loner, shameless eavesdropper, professional volunteer, story scavenger.