I’m leaving you. It’s not you. It’s our miniature house. It was romantic at first, living together in a tiny shed parked in the woods of New Hampshire. But I’m a side sleeper and spent every night scraping my shoulder on the ceiling of the loft. And now, I don’t love you anymore.
Don’t get me wrong, as time went on, I acclimated and no longer sat crying on the compost toilet, which is under the shower, which is also where your sisters sleep when they visit, and where you keep your hand-forged black walnut ax.
During the day, I’d watch you, through the living roomette porthole, cut wood in your new L.L. Bean coat. And wood for what? It’s not like we have a tiny fucking fireplace to burn it in. Maybe, if we did have a fireplace, then we could make fireplace love and would stay married.
As we settled in, I pulled out my yoga mat—one of the five possessions I could fit into our new life. But I quickly hit a wall, two actually, when I extended my arms. But I didn’t want to give up, and decided to just focus on the mountain pose and on us, on your miniature dream. We were part of an HGTV movement. Remember TV? Non-travel sized toiletries?
On the tiny plus side and thanks to the mini stove and fridge, I could only make meals that contained the daily-recommended calorie intake for a healthy child. I trimmed down 27 pounds in four weeks. I’m now a size 00 and can fit into my first grade clothes. Who needs yoga, I thought and chuckled as I pushed on the opposing walls with both hands: “You can’t close in on me, assholes.” At which point I blacked out.
Like goldfish that match their container size, I was a better fit for the home. I could sleep on my side. I even thought I might go on loving you, until last night.
I had drunk an entire shot glass of water with dinner, and my bladder was the fullest it had been in days. Despite vision and bone loss, I had a foggy sense of victory over this life we were building.
Half asleep, I grabbed the rope to slide my way down to the toilet but missed and instead grabbed an imaginary one. All 98 pounds of me plopped off the loft down to the floor. The Infinite Jest hardcover fell off the murphy shelf and hit me on the head. Suffice it to say pee sprayed all over our tiny kingdom. That, dearheart, was when our love died.
When you went to town to buy a roll of toilet paper this morning, I thought of dragging the house into our pond with my Fiat, but I was too weak to make tow cordage from grass. Instead, I packed all my belongings into my purse and walked out.
Love of my life, by the time you get this letter, I will have likely dissolved into an anemic puddle. Or I’ll be back in Brooklyn, getting back our eighth floor walk up apartment. In which case, you might want to make room on the tiny table, because the divorce papers will soon be on their way. Oh and you can keep the shed.
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