I met the last short girl I loved in pretty much the same way that I met the first short girl I loved. I was five days out of jail and I parked the car I was sleeping in right outside her house. Like the first short girl, she was a little over four feet. She had a fat, circular face connected to a curvy but slender body held up by meaty legs — bulky at the top and steadily thinner at the bottom — and an ass that looked like two kettlebells glued together and confined within a tight space. Every morning she would walk out of her suburban white brick development mansion and get into her maroon Toyota to resume her life elsewhere, away from my puppy-eyed gaze as my greasy face pressed against the passenger window of my ’96 Chevy Impala.

This did not mean she wasn’t speaking to me, it was quite the contrary. When I first saw the girl, it was her minimalist fashion sense that screamed to me in near-orgasmic renditions, “Steal my panties.” Her leggy stride that shook her hips and ass like a bulky, but nonetheless lethal pendulum beckoned, “And wear them like a hat around the house.” The flipping of her feathered Kool-Aid red hair cooed to me, “Use this large rock next to the flower bed to smash the front window,” though the rock advised, “Throw me through the back window you dumbass!” Love is the only language I could translate. The door did not protest or egg me on, but I told it to fuck off anyway, though I can’t recall why.

I went inside and I was bombarded by a rather large woman with a wrinkled face and a mole on the left cheek in pink curlers and a green robe with some oily smudges strewn about it. Her nagging voice that screeched like a crushed cat screamed for me to get the fuck out or she would call the cops — the terms “rapist jerk off” and “jerk off rapist” were thrown in for good measure. I couldn’t exactly have that considering my current situation, but lo, the girl’s tiny but supple left breast said I could tie her up in the basement and give her lots of Tylenol PM and she’ll be just fine. As I dragged her flailing body down the stairs, I received a message from her stomach’s fatty bulge that hung over the waist of her hot pants: “You should make out with her while she’s tied up. Upon informing the bulge that I had already applied the strip of duct tape onto her lips, its reply was not to worry and just rip the tape off, put it back on and repeat for several cycles.

I felt as free and warm as love could ever make me as I bonded myself with her intimate surroundings. However, bitter breezes that turned out to be the whispers of her clothing items started to interfere with our delicate affair, telling me to do most unsavory and offensive things. “Sweep the back porch,” her left toe ring cackled to me. “You could try club soda to get those semen stains out of the curtains, but I can’t promise it will work,” screamed her tight white tank top like an impaled banshee. “If you’re going to regurgitate,” her platform shoes howled, “do it in the toilet, not her shower cap.” Her panties scoffed at me: “I’m not a hat you shit!”

The taunting and temptation made me dizzy, my ears roared with sinful deeds. Though I am ashamed to admit it, I did not take long until I bowed down to these beastly urges.   Adrenaline pumped through me as I hand-washed each Home Goods-purchased dish, sprayed away every inch of grime and massaged her mother’s corn-ridden feet. I swept, scrubbed, stacked and dusted, oh God how I dusted! Cold sweat coated my brow as I heard the rumbling of the garage door.

In came the short girl, heavenly body, deceitful clothing and all. She let out an aggravated huff as the clacking of her platform shoes echoed in the kitchen. She slammed her large purse onto the counter and she let out a cough. She could smell the bleach. She walked out into the dining room to find me trying to wipe those pesky stains from the curtains. She stood silently for a moment. A lump lodged in my throat. Part of me wanted to hide my shame while another was about to weaken my knees and make me call out in tears for forgiveness of my indiscretions. “You’re the new cleaning . . . guy, I guess,” she said. I didn’t respond. “Well I guess my mom already paid you, hold on a moment.” She went back into the kitchen and seemed to be rummaging through her purse. She came back with a wrinkled five dollar bill in her hand. “Here, she’s an awful tipper,” she said with a slight laugh. For a moment I couldn’t move. “Here, take it.” I reached out and slowly slipped the bill out of her hand and stuffed it into my pocket. “Well, everything looks nice, good job, I suppose you can go now.” Saying nothing else she slipped her shoes off and pattered to her room.

I slipped out through the back, in the driveway next door, a girl riding a pink tricycle in a circle stopped and stuck her tongue out at me. I ran back to the car and locked myself in. I tore all of my clothes off, they were far too soiled and perverted to ever be worn again. I curled my body in the back seat. I took out the five dollar bill, pressed it against my face and breathed in a whiff of its scent catching some traces of sweat from her hand. Just then, I was flushed with warmth and cleanliness knowing, even for a brief time, that almost every part of her loved me.

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Chris Morgan is a menial employee of a yuppie porn magazine.  His dad is an employee of the insurance company that covered the Titanic.