There was a knock at the door. Stuart went over to answer it and found six people from a media team standing around on the porch.

I heard them from the living room.

“HELLO,” they said. “WE’RE LOOKING FOR THE MAN WHO WAS MINIATURIZED BY THE FLIP. WE’RE FROM ‘THE BIRDSEYE’ AND WE’D LIKE TO RUN A STORY ON HIM. WE’RE OFFERING A COMPETITIVE RATE FOR YOUR TROUBLE.”

Dumbfounded, I cast around in my mind for who might have told them. Maybe it had been the vet – as if he hadn’t done enough damage! But who else knew? Apart from Remy, Scott and Tasha. And what would any of them have to gain spilling the secret?

“LOOK,” I heard Stuart say, sounding a little disgruntled, “I DON’T THINK HE NEEDS THE PUBLICITY RIGHT NOW.”

Even though the reporters’ presence annoyed me, too, what also annoyed me was Stuart overriding my ability to make decisions for myself.

“WOULD YOU JUST PUT OUR OFFER TO HIM?” the reporters persisted. “WE’RE KEEN TO ACCOMMODATE.”

Stuart came into the living room for me. Jennifer was already standing fixedly, as if she was ready to pull out a sword and shield on my behalf.

If for no other reason than to contradict Stuart, I nodded.

“I want to. Sure. Whatever.”

They both looked at me with reticence.

“ARE YOU SURE, JERRY?” said Stuart. “THIS IS GOING INTO THE PUBLIC SPHERE.”

“YOU AREN’T TEMPTED BY THE MONEY, ARE YOU?” Jennifer said. 

“It’s not about the money,” I said. “I want people to know what happened. I want them to know I’m still a person.”

With no further argument from either of them, Stuart went and invited the media people in. They brought their stuff with them: camera, lights, other gear. They immediately started surveying the living room, looking at backgrounds, angles, spaces.

“WE HAVE TO MOVE THAT,” said one of the team, pointing at a tall pot plant in the corner. Stuart gave the okay, and the people set to work pushing it aside. Then the camera-guy began setting up his camera on a stand, as power cables were set up, and some people adjusted lights.

Sitting on my sponge bed on the kitchen counter, I watched them putter around, with a growing mixture of awe and dread. I didn’t realize they wanted footage as well as an interview, and was starting to second guess my initial enthusiasm.

One of the media guys passed by me, his head and eyes turning to follow me as he kept moving.

“Don’t you want to talk to the guy who made me like this?” I piped up hesitantly. “He could tell you a lot more about how it happened. I don’t understand the science behind it.”

One of the guys fixing up the camera lifted his head and shook it.

“THIS IS FOR TV,” he grunted. “BROADCAST – BROAD RECEPTION. NO SCIENCE OR JARGON OR ANYTHING. LOOK, WE’RE JUST HERE TO GET SOME FILM OF A TINY MAN GOING ABOUT HIS DAILY LIFE.”

“LET’S GET A WIDE OF THE ROOM, FIRST,” one of the team said to the camera-man. “GET SOME PERSPECTIVE.”

The team was introduced to us, one by one.

“I’M JULIENNA,” said a young made-up woman who had taken a kind of leadership role directing the others. “THE INTERVIEWER. THIS IS CRAIG ON THE CAMERA. THAT’S LISA ASSISTING CRAIG. AND CLAUDIA, SHE’S GOING TO DO MAKE-UP. THAT’S TOM OUR PRODUCER, AND HIS ASSISTANT OSCAR.”

My head spun trying to remember all the names.

The assistant took a half step forward across the room – seemingly without thinking – as if to shake my hand, before realizing to his embarrassment that this was a problem.

Julienna looked over at me: “WE’D LIKE TO SHOOT YOU DOWN THERE ON THE SOFA, MR MOUSSEAU. IF WE COULD ALSO GET ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE FAMILY – ” her eyes swept briefly over Stuart and Jennifer, “—TO STAND BESIDE HIM WHEN WE START SHOOTING, THAT’D BE GREAT.”

“We’re not family,” I said loudly.

At the exact same time, Jennifer proclaimed: “WE’RE NOT RELATED.”

Unruffled, the woman said: “OKAY. FRIENDS?”

“More like housemates,” I said.

“I LIKE TO THINK WE’RE A LITTLE MORE THAN THAT,” Jennifer said, somewhat tersely. She turned to the interviewer. “JERRY AND I USED TO DATE.”

The media team stared at her. Their eyes flicked from her, to me, then back to her. I gritted my teeth, feeling a nerve flicker in my temple.

I could imagine what they were thinking: No wonder you broke up.

Jennifer, shut up, I thought to myself. Let’s not give them a fucking Cosmopolitan sob story. Or a page out of Playboy.

The woman interviewer composed herself in a beat, looking Jennifer up and down. In response, Jennifer looked her up and down. She was just wearing casual clothes whereas the interviewer was dressed up, styled her hair and had applied make-up.

“REALLY? I MEAN, GREAT. WE’D LIKE TO GET YOU IN A FEW SHOTS.”

“FINE WITH ME,” Jennifer said intently.

Julienna signaled for someone to get me onto the sofa. The camera assistant Lisa stepped forward obediently, holding her hands out to me cautiously a little like a beggar asking for food. She was a slim girl, and quite young – probably the youngest person in the room.

“I’M GOING TO PICK YOU UP NOW, MR MOUSSEAU,” she said in a loud clear voice, as if my size made me somehow mentally deficient. She made a small initial motion with her hand, as if gauging how to best get it around me, before deciding to wrap both hands around my torso. I couldn’t help but tense up as her hands pinned my arms against my size. Her palms smelled like zesty soap.

Then I was lifted into the air and held close against her chest, engulfing me in a cloud of her perfume; the zing of citrus but with the punch of wasabi. Spasmed coughs erupted from my throat.

“I’M SORRY, WHAT IS THAT?” Julienna smiled, looking around. “IS HE – ARE YOU – COUGHING? MY WORD, ISN’T THAT IS JUST THE CUTEST LITTLE SOUND.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Jennifer’s eyes darkening. Incidentally, Lisa, like Julienna, was dressed up stylishly and had make-up on.

Lisa deposited me onto the sofa seat, and I arranged myself into a sitting position with my legs stretched out in front of me.

“CAN YOU GET DOWN FROM THERE IF YOU WANT, MR MOUSSEAU?” enquired Julienna.

“Pretty sure I could manage,” I said. “And you can call me Jerry.”

“OKAY, JERRY.” She nodded at the cameraman. “WE’LL WANT SOME FOOTAGE OF THAT, LATER.”

Then she caught the eye of the other woman of the group.

“CLAUDIA, YOU BETTER START.”

Without pause, the woman squatted in front of the sofa and began to apply a couple of huge fingertips to my face, rubbing foundation into my cheeks. I froze, startled into silence by the proximity. I could feel her warm breath beating into my brow as she stared into my eyes.

Her enormous fingertips slid over my face in circular patterns, partially blocking my vision as they passed over my eyeline. It felt like I was a little doll or something and she was painting my facial features on. I didn’t like having make-up put on me at the best of times, but this was utterly disturbing, and even kind of degrading.

My breath hitched a moment as the sharp trimmed white tip of the nail of her middle finger passed precariously close to my eyeball. It did this repeatedly as her finger cycled around near the bridge of my nose. My eyes began to water.

“OH, CAREFUL, SWEETIE,” she murmured tenderly, “DON’T LET IT RUN. IT’S GOING TO MAKE YOU LOOK SWEATY IF IT GETS WET.”

The pad of her little finger extended and began to rub each of my eyes gently, wiping the moisture away. I bit my tongue, hating the pressure of her huge mitts on my face. I let out a shaky breath. It was enough just trying not to scream for everyone to leave, but I held it in. This was about making people understand me, not alienating them.

Once Claudia’s hands had retreated out of my view, I noticed Jennifer out of the corner of my (blurry) eye again. Her jaw was set and she had this exquisite look of restraint on her face. It seemed she was just as bothered by another woman pawing all over my face as I was.

“CLAUDIA WILL TOUCH YOU UP AS WELL, HONEY,” Julienna said to Jennifer.

“WHAT FOR?” she joked coolly.

There was a pause heavy with tension.

The media women were dressed up and done up glamorously, but Jennifer was the most beautiful woman in the room. Her natural sexiness was ever-present no matter what state she was in. It wasn’t just that she was gorgeous, it was her attitude, her devil-may-care cockiness; appearance alone did not convey it.

I remember Jennifer telling me she had trouble getting along with other women, she got along better with guys. It started in high school and as she got older and went to university, the quality of her female friendships declined. She said she felt like other women were intimidated by her, took her the wrong way, and felt like she was competing with them.

When we were together she ran through all her past female friends with me, diagnosing and over psychoanalyzing when I thought there was a very simple reason for the estrogen friction.

Other women were jealous of her radiant beauty.

Even a demure girl who looked like her might have had the same problems, but Jen’s capricious attitude just compounded it.

It was only that I knew her well enough, that I knew she wasn’t trying to make fun of other women. And if she did, it was only because she made fun of everyone – everyone was fair game for her unfair games. In fact, it was only when she targeted you in particular that you knew she liked you above the rest.

I didn’t resent Jen her interpersonal issues – didn’t we all have them? But right now I wished she and her big self would not interpose and just let the media people do their job, roll up and go home. So much attention by so many people was making me uncomfortable, and we hadn’t even interviewed yet.

One of the media guys was lurking by the mantel, examining some framed photos.

“LOOK AT THIS, JULE,” he said, turning around.

The woman interviewer strode over and picked up what he was pointing at, holding it up. It was a photo of two smiling people, leaning into each other. The man had his arm casually around the woman, who had long dark hair with white tips, and ivory skin.

I felt a jolt in my chest as I recognized the photo immediately.

It was Jennifer and me.

It had been taken back when I hadn’t know her very well, and, a little drunk, I’d noticed her across the room at a friend’s get-together, standing with a girl I knew. She’d looked familiar, like I’d met her before, but I couldn’t remember when. I thought she was gorgeous and that was good enough for me.

Thinking this friend of hers was stunning and curiously unencumbered by male attention, I approached them confidently, told the female friend to whip out her camera and pounced on the stunner with the strange hair dye job for a quick photo, exclaiming ‘I know you’ and pulling her against me as my friend took the photo, before carrying on my way before we could get talking. I didn’t know her name – or even if we really did know each other.

And I forgot to ask the friend for the photo. In fact I’d never seen it before now.  I had no idea Jennifer had it – still had it – let alone why it was framed and on the mantel.

Jennifer had noticed it too, and her eyes had gone wide. “HEY, WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?”

“IS THIS THE TWO OF YOU?” Julienna enquired.

Jennifer’s mouth worked for a moment struggling to respond. I couldn’t help but think she looked cute when she was flabbergasted, if only because she rarely was.

“Yes,” I spoke up. “It’s from a few years ago.”

“OH, THAT’S PERFECT.” Julienna gripped the photo triumphantly like a trophy. She brought it closer to her face for analysis.

“A SHAME YOU DON’T LOOK EXACTLY LIKE THE PHOTO,” she lamented, looking between the photo and Jennifer. It wasn’t clear to me what differences she was making out. Maybe she was referring to how the slightly younger Jennifer in the photo looked a little shy, caught off guard by my spontaneous gesture. If anything, Jennifer had only gotten more attractive since the photo was taken. She was more confident, more assertive, more herself. In the photo she looked surprised – again, not a normal state of being for her.

“WE’LL NEED TO MAKE THAT CLEAR TO THE AUDIENCE THAT IT’S YOU.”

“NO, THAT’S AN ANGLE,” Craig, the cameraman said, “THEY’VE BOTH CHANGED.”

I also looked different in the photo. My hair was fluffy and unruly then, whereas I’d since had it cut short. In the photo I was grinning easily, while in real life – right now – my mouth was tight and set like stone. Maybe the cameraman was right I thought despondently.

One of the assistants attached a microphone to my shirt, clipping it on my sleeve. At my size it was a veritable speaker in its own right.

Once the cameras were rolling, they didn’t waste any time jumping into the meaty questions. I guessed they would insert a voice over intro segment later. Jennifer and Stuart stood off to the side, watching, as if ready to jump in should the interview get too personal.

Julienna started off asking me a little about myself generally; age, background, relationship status, trying to build up a picture of my life before the accident. Then she asked me how I ‘came to be’ so small, as if it was a process I’d just stumbled into.

Then again, I had literally stumbled into it, in a manner of speaking.

I tried to explain what happened; the Geomagnetic Flip and tripping into the time warp, waking up tiny...

Even I was alarmed at how ludicrous it sounded now, coming out of my mouth, like a rejected proposal for a Twilight Zone episode. A blush was creeping into my cheeks and perspiration beginning to prick my brow. I couldn’t help wonder if they’d think being tiny had made me start to go crazy. Well, fair question.

I left out the part about being incredibly drunk at the time – I didn’t want to sound like a complete loser. Stuart was silent and still as I talked, while every so often I noticed in my peripheral vision, Jennifer’s brow deepen, or her lips purse. Maybe she picked up on my evasiveness – she knew my behavior at the time had been highly irregular and unrepresentative of my usual personality.

Suddenly she interrupted from off to the side:

“WE DON’T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED,” she said dismissively. “WHY DON’T YOU FOCUS ON HOW HE’S DOING NOW?”

“CUT,” said Julienna, with professional dispassion. Without looking at Jennifer, she said to me, “EVEN SO, I THINK IT’S IMPORTANT TO GIVE THE DETAILS AND EXPLAIN WHAT YOU WERE DOING AT THE TIME.”

“There were so many variables,” I shrugged.

“AND HOW DID YOU GET FROM THERE TO HERE?” she proceeded.

“I don’t remember. I woke up here.”

“UH,” Stuart cut in hesitantly, seemingly a little intimidated by the whole media tour de force, “I THINK I CAN ANSWER THAT. JEN AND MYSELF AGREED TO HAVE HIM ON FOR…HOWEVER LONG IT TOOK FOR HIS LIFE TO RETURN TO NORMAL.”

Julienna didn't miss a beat.

“AND IF IT DOESN’T?”

Stuart swallowed, looking briefly to Jennifer as if for support, but she wasn’t looking at him. “WE HAVEN’T DISCUSSED THAT. WE TAKE EACH DAY AS IT COMES.”

The interviewer swiftly turned back to me.

“JERRY, DO YOU EVER SEE YOURSELF LIVING INDEPENDENTLY AGAIN?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’d love to, personally, but at this stage it’s difficult to envision.”

The journalist surged on as if she already had the next 10 questions in mind (she probably did).

“HOW DO YOU WASH?”

“Well, obviously I can’t shower – I mean, not on my own. I bathe in the bathroom sink.”

“CUT. CAN WE GET SOME FOOTAGE OF THIS?”

My eyebrows jumped up. “Er, you mean, in the water? Without clothes on?”

"YES," she said matter-of-factly. “I DON’T MEAN EXPOSED. THIS IS DAYTIME TV. BUT UNDER THE WATER, JUST YOUR HEAD ABOVE THE SURFACE.”

Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “I’LL FIX IT UP FOR YOU.”

Next to her, Stuart scratched his head, probably closer on my wavelength. “Is that, uh, really necessary?”

“IT’S THE EVERYDAY LITTLE THINGS OUR AUDIENCE WILL WANT TO SEE: WASHING, BEDDING, TRAVELLING, INTIMATE HUMAN CONTACT—”

“Uh,” I stammered, “intimate?”

“YES.” She gestured between Jennifer and I. “YOU TWO ARE TOGETHER?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I never said we were.” And I had no interest whatsoever in divulging the incidentals of our unusual relationship – whatever it was – to this team of random people I’d only just met – to say nothing of the potential millions of anonymous broadcast audience.

Julienna put a hand to her forehead. “OH THAT’S RIGHT, YOU SPLIT. YOU SAID THAT.” There was a pause, pregnant with unspoken meaning. “BUT YOU LIVE TOGETHER…” She punctuated this with fingertips pressed together, held in the air – that overused public speaking gesture – like this was a salient point.

“Our relationship is…complicated. You could say we’re friends,” I offered reluctantly. Then thought I caught a flicker of annoyance cross Jennifer’s face.

“WE KNOW IN REAL LIFE RELATIONSHIPS ARE AMBIGUOUS,” the woman went on steadily, “BUT TV VIEWERS DON’T LIKE AMBIGUITY. SO I WANT TO PLAY UP THIS ANGLE THAT YOU GUYS STILL HAVE FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER. SO IF YOU TWO COULD, YOU KNOW, MAYBE FLUTTER YOUR EYELASHES AT EACH OTHER A LITTLE MORE AND SO ON, THAT WOULD BE HELPFUL.”

Stuart glanced at Jennifer.

“DOESN’T BOTHER ME, HONEY,” he said earnestly. “IT’S JUST TV; WE’RE GIVING THEM WHAT THEY WANT.” Obviously he didn’t see me as any kind of threat – if he did, he probably would never have agreed for me to live here with them.

Jennifer didn’t say anything.

Without a beat, Julienna went back into interview mode.

“JERRY, DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN A RELATIONSHIP IN THE FUTURE?”

My cheeks were growing hot again, not so much with nerves but irritation. They sure wasted no time diving into the personal laundry pile. “Haven’t really thought about it. It’d be nice, sure.”

“WOULD SHE BE NORMAL SIZED?”

The vet’s ‘lady homunculi’ remark flashed into my mind, and I repressed a shudder.

“I don’t see what else she could be,” I said, and one of the cameramen chuckled. I secretly hoped he was chuckling at what I’d said, and not the image of me in a relationship with a normal sized woman.

“DO YOU HAVE A STRATEGY FOR HOW YOU’LL NAVIGATE THE FORESEEABLE OBSTACLES?”

“I guess that’s something to discuss with the woman in question.”

“WHEN YOU SEE YOURSELF IN THIS RELATIONSHIP, DO YOU IMAGINE THE WOMAN IS THE SAME SIZE AS YOU, OR DO YOU FACTOR IN THE SIZE DISPARITY?”

I was starting to get an uncomfortable premonition of where this line of questioning was going. It was moving apace into non G-rated content. My blush was deepening.

At my reluctance to answer, Julienna smoothly changed tack:

“HAS YOUR ACCIDENT CHANGED THE WAY YOU VIEW PEOPLE? BECAUSE REGULAR SIZED PEOPLE MUST LOOK ASTONISHINGLY BIG FROM YOUR PERSPECTIVE.”

“I don’t mingle with people I don’t trust.”

“DON’T YOU FEAR NORMAL SIZED PEOPLE? DON’T YOU WORRY THEY’LL ACCIDENTALLY HURT YOU?”

“Well, people can accidentally hurt you at normal size, too.”

“CUT.” The seat creaked as Julienna leaned forward towards me, clasping her hands together and crouching her upper body as low as possible, as if I was a little child. “JERRY, WHAT WE’RE GETTING IS GREAT, BUT WE NEED YOU TO OPEN UP A LITTLE. WE NEED YOU TO BARE SOME VULNERABILITY. HOPES AND FEARS.” She stood up and looked around.

“JENNA – ”

“JENNIFER.”

“YES, JENNIFER. COME OVER AND GET INTO POSITION ON THE SOFA WITH JERRY.”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?”

“HOLD HIM, SHOW SOME AFFECTION. WHATEVER IS COMFORTABLE. WE WANT TO MAKE A CONNECTION WITH THE VIEWER.”

Now that she was directly involved in the interview, Jennifer came out of herself, no longer glowering on the sidelines. Unlike me, she had a very easy presence in front of the camera, unable to keep the smile from her face. I couldn’t tell if it was natural or acted.

She skipped over and plonked down on the sofa right next to me, causing me to bounce up into the air and rocket into her firm thigh.

Everyone laughed. Jennifer scooped me up and placed me onto her lap. She was wearing a tight skirt which pulled taut between her thighs, creating a natural platform for me.

The questions resumed, now directed at her:

“TELL ME ABOUT THE FIRST TIME YOU MET.”

“THAT WAS TWO YEARS AGO, AT A PARTY. I WAS, UH – ” she chuckled a little, “—FAIRLY DRUNK, AND JERRY WAS PRACTICALLY ASLEEP. I FELL OVER RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM, AND IT WOKE HIM UP. HE MADE A JOKE THAT PUT ME AT EASE. I FELL IN LOVE WITH HIM THAT NIGHT – I KNOW, TERRIBLE JOKE – BUT IT’S TRUE…”

*insert flashback sequence effects*