MicroHorror

His wife’s tiny legs dangle from their kitchen chair, centimeters from the floor.

He has been focusing on them the past few weeks, even more than usual.

When they met, he kind of liked their disparity. He had always hated his sticks. She had always hated her stumps.

Later that night, he cannot sleep. He is tired of punishing himself. Eight years is enough time to punish himself for rushing things. He should find someone his size.

The next day he feigns a stomachache and stays home. She gives him a look instead of her customary kiss before heading to the garage. He waits a few minutes and then begins packing, quickly, only taking essentials. She finds him in their bathroom.

He says, “Let me–”

She smacks his face with a bottle, three times, probably more. When he awakens, he is sitting in a wheelchair.

She wheels him in front of a mirror, plops his stumps into shoes, like meatballs into paper cups. He cries out of course, and he wiggles under the ropes wrapped around him. She shakes her head. “Only when you can forgive.”

A few days later, he is strong enough to stand. Were it not for the little poof in her hair, they would be exactly the same height.