The Miniature Wife: and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

the size of a coffee mug—in fact, ever since we have known each other—my wife had been the kind of person to leave notes. Notes of thanks, notes of displeasure. Small reminders of things to be done, gentle and not so gentle reprimands. One night, shortly after we were married and living together for the first time, and after I had gone to bed for the night, she placed a plastic grocery bag full of dirty dishes next to my side of the bed. These were dishes I had used but hadn’t yet washed and put away. They were a day old, or no more than two days old at the most. After I woke the next morning and stepped on the bag of dishes and twisted my ankle on them and nearly fell over because of them, I picked up the bag and found affixed to it a small yellow Post-it note on which she had simply written
Yours
.
    Often her notes began
Please remember to
, or
Don’t forget we need
, or
Did you remember that
. But just as often she dispensed with even these pleasantries and left me notes that read
Laundry
or
Dishes
or
Your shoes on the floor
or
The hairs you left on the bathroom sink
.
    Even now, even at the size of a coffee cup, she leaves me notes, though lately I do not understand them, or cannot read them, even with the assistance of one of my many very strong, very good magnifying glasses. Nor do I know where she has found the paper or the pencil with which to write these notes. I find them in surprising, implausible places. Affixed to the bathroom mirror, which seems much too high for her to reach. Mixed in with the little pieces of lint and detritus in my pants pocket or the inside breast pocket of my jacket. At the bottom of my cereal bowl. Stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.
    At first these notes offered some form of communication between us, though there seemed to be only so much for her to say.
Please hurry. I miss you, too. At night I am cold. The ants rarely bother me, but I cannot abide the flies.
But the longer she remains in her miniaturized condition, the less intelligible these notes are. I found one just the other day that read
Puppies make the best mayonnaise
. And another that read
Flies on the living room windowsill
. A third that read
The life you promised me
. I have found some notes that do not contain words at all, but merely doodles or scribblings or diagrams. She will draw on them at times, but, as she is not a very accomplished artist, these drawings do little to move me.
    Rarely do I know what to make of these notes. For a while, I thought to keep them, though I couldn’t say why or to what purpose. As a needless reminder of this somewhat rocky moment in our marriage? Now, as I find them, I collect them in a small envelope I keep in my back pocket, and at the end of the day, as I undress for bed, I empty the envelope’s contents into the trash, and the next morning, I start all over again.

     
    The house took me nearly two months to complete, much longer than I had expected, but having completed the house, having added the bed and the rest of the furniture, having finished painting the rooms inside and out, I opened it up to her yesterday, only to wait to see what she would make of it.
    Already, less than a day later, there are signs of life inside it.
    The bed is unmade and there is a mess in one of the living rooms—pillows on the floor, a lamp left on, signs of domesticity, of being lived in. I can’t see very well because I am only looking through the windows. I’m afraid to open the house up. If I unhinge the house and pull it apart, I run the risk of catching my wife and splitting her in two. Regardless, there are signs of life, of living. Soon, I should be able to devise a way to return her to normal.
    But then again—it is such a nice house. Much nicer than our normal-sized one. Is it possible that she and I could be happy there together? Once a week, I could return to normal size and buy groceries, run errands, make our lives comfortable. I could even continue working—shrinking