I think I might have fried my brain over the weekend, with all the back-and-forth emails arguing with my friend over pockets and patriarchy and stupid high heels. So today I’m falling back on fluff. A ball of fluff, to be precise.
Every night at my bedtime (and long after the kids’), there’s a soft knock at my door. When I open it this… thing… smiles at me and says, “I am a giant ball of fluff!” and takes a running jump to land on my bed.
Who is this fluff? What does it want?
The fluff is almost adult-sized; it wears glasses and its teeth are sheathed in plastic (Invisalign™.) It’s blue, fuzzy, and soft, with koalas all over it. It curls up on my bed and responds to touch by wiggling and humming. I think it must be lonely—it’s the only one of its kind in the house—so I try to comfort it with hugs and pats and gentle stroking.
But there’s a dark, secret part of me that wants to skin it alive and wear its fur myself.
Or maybe… if I get really close I might be able to “catch” the fluffiness from it. I wonder if its nocturnal hirsutism is contagious? I certainly hope so. K’s always so happy in her fluffy cocoon.