The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 11. Masterstroke | Direct From Paris
I found an accomplice in a regular cartoon on a jokes page behind the fold-out photo, where drawings showed a tiny wingless pixie making mischief with full-sized props. This bad brunette Tinker Bell bounced through life nude between her long black gloves, and had lately taken to having her shocking little patch of pubic hair on display. I was unsure if I could get off to her and certain I should not try it in someone else’s home, but I found her both bizarre and reassuring.
I let the little drawings of her fuel my imagination...
She jets through dreamy skies by straddling a magic beam. One night she passes too close to my home, and her glittering ride is drained of its power by the vacuum of sadness that surrounds my isolation. She crashes into my bedroom, where she hides from the world and becomes my secret girlfriend.
Our woman-on-woman liaison has zero risk of discovery because she can conceal herself in a hat or a box. She scampers around bare-assed and plays cute pranks on me, and I scour Toronto for a specialty doll store in case one of her wee heels snaps or her diminutive black stockings get a run.
Besides love and presents, she needs sustenance. I spoil her with sweet little breakfasts and tiny dinners, and provide her with miniature bag lunches for when I am away.
On Sunday after church I smuggle in brunch for her:
- Miniature squares cut from a waffle with butter melting into syrup.
- Three plump blueberries to keep her healthy.
- A steamy pot of peppermint tea.
- And for her dessert, a chocolate-chip kiss.
I lay out her treats, and open my nightstand drawer where she emerges yawning and sultry from a plush nest of towels.
Then she talks with me and stops me from being so fucking lonely.
The next time I babysat there was a good classic movie on TV, but I was distracted by concern about my depravity. Had I whiled away my previous shift by fantasizing that I had incarcerated a romantic prisoner? I needed to assess this. I returned to the den and moved the records aside.
The magazines were gone.