Everything is miniature. Everything is about 1/50th of how big it should be. Your face is the size of a marble. My hand, touching your face, is the size of a breadcrumb. Your mouth, opening and saying something, is the size of an eyelash. My mouth, opening and saying something else, is the size of an eyelash. We are miniature. We are sitting in a room (bathtub), watching a TV (golfball), under a sheet (handkerchief).
‘How big do you think my heart would be,’ I ask you, ‘if I could take it out of my body and look at it?’
‘I think it would be about the size of a fist,’ you say.
I take my heart out of my body and look at it. It is the size of a new 5p. It is beating and no longer attached to the rest of my body. It looks stupid. It looks like something dropped on the floor and picked up again and blown on.
This isn’t possible, I think. Why is nothing happening? Why are we sitting here watching TV? Whose fault is this?
Your face is sad. It’s confused-looking. There are things we’re not saying, that we probably should be saying; sad, confused things; things like two hospitalized people on drips, attempting to play table tennis. The hospitalised people take it in turns to serve and never get a rally going. They wander around the table tennis room in slow motion, awkwardly searching for balls under chairs, getting their drips tangled in the curtains. The things needed to be said are hurtful, maybe, if you take them a certain way. They are things best said with all the lights and the TV turned off. But instead I’m wasting time, acting like a twat and taking my heart out of my body and looking at it, showing off, hoping you will look at it instead of the TV, hoping you will nod at it or something. What am I expecting from you? Is it me that’s making all the mistakes, and not even realising?
I put my heart back in my body.
I don’t say anything. You don’t say anything, either.
I look at your shoelace-sized leg and need to go to the toilet.