“Inch-High Girlfriend,” by Darry Dinnell

Aug 20th, 2016 | By | Category: Fiction, Prose

The first question people ask after your inch-high girlfriend has been carried off to the ladies’ room by one of her girlfriends is some variation of “So what is your sex-life like?” Refreshingly absent in the asking is the usual leering grin that accompanies friendly inquiries into intimate affairs. Rather, the look is more often one of deep concern – severe, even. The question is a fair one, and I will answer it for you in due course; there are, however, other things you might be interested to know about dating a woman who is one inch tall.

Disappointed shall be the man who treats a woman as arm candy. I draw many a stare at restaurants, but not so much on account of the woman I’m with. The sight of a man tilted across a dimly lit dinner table sending soft whispers towards the seemingly empty place set opposite him commands more than enough attention. Double and triple dating becomes a necessity. It smooths the task of comfortably installing my inch-high girlfriend in the women’s washroom.

Outdoorsy dates are most difficult. Leashed or not, pets are overly interested in my inch-high girlfriend, and so I clench her snugly in my fist. Windy days are especially harrowing, seeing your love swept up on a spring breeze, leaving you with no choice but to swat the air hysterically in hopes of reclaiming her.

We spend most of our quality time indoors. I lie motionless on the couch, she lies on my stomach facing me, her affectionate gaze rising to eye level and back down again with every breath I take. Eventually she seeks my face by way of a determined crawl, struggling onto my shoulder, adorably refusing assistance. Balanced on my intertragic notch, she hollers tenderly “I love you” into my ear canal. When I do make a move, it is never done too quickly.

But you are still wondering about matters sexual.

Imagine a woman has hopped the security barrier at Stonehenge and has thrown her arms around one of the monoliths, starting into a diligent shimmy upward. Returning the favor requires approximately the same fine motor-skill set involved in assembling a model ship in a glass bottle.

You said you wanted to know about our sex-life.

More pressing is the issue of reproduction. As with most couples of any solid duration, we have discussed whether or not we want children. Though we both agree we do, medical professionals seem less enthused by the idea. What if, they ask, the child was to have its father’s size?

I tell her that I am not one of those people for whom children are a deal breaker. I tell her my love will endure no matter what. Her thin smile is barely visible, but in it I detect a dissembling.

We talk about artificial insemination. All we need is the right donor. I would do anything for our relationship, even if I must become the most banal kind of cuckold, bested by a test-tube. Every day I scour ostensibly empty benches, apparently unoccupied bathroom stalls, looking for a donor. Even fruitless searches comfort me, given the unsettling possibility that she should be the one out looking on her own.

And so I have little choice but to leave all you, the curious, with nothing better than the wistful truth. Loving an inch-high woman is a search for an adequate inch-high man.


Defenestration-Darry DinnellDarry Dinnell has lived in Montreal for nearly a decade but has never in that time been of Montreal. His work has appeared in the Washington Square Review.

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