Built to Scale
by
Kristen Reece
I knew a miniaturist. He liked everything small. He has been looking for an Aubusson rug—even just a patch, for the foyer, a runner for the stair-scape. I said, Who in their right mind would cut apart a rug like that for a little scrap? But I still look at every flea market we go to, and I haunt the antique stores with him.
In these little houses, he has taxidermized animals. Lizards, mostly. How strange they look against the flagstone walkways and crenellated towers—scaly tails shadowed on Spanish moss, posed in that era’s clothing. At the beginning, I wondered if I would end up living in that house, too—a butterfly, flensed and fleshed, in a picture frame.
The one he calls Eunice; he can’t stop touching. He has made a strawberry bonnet for her from my favourite basket in the kitchen, and now I have to be careful about how I stack the apples; the waxed surfaces seem to sneak through when I am not looking.
I helped him research petticoats and what muslin to use, how to pad her bosom with cotton batting. He posed her as a coquette, coyly riding the swing.
She’s in love with lizard Henry, in his knee breeches and pompadour hair. He watches her as she pumps higher to touch the sky. You just know that he would jump off the widow’s walk, to see if he could fly, if she told him to.
I think, I am lizard Henry. In all the things I do for you. Structuring my days around estate sales and reading everything about horsehair sofas and doors with skeleton keys.
The way I lag an uncertain step behind and have begun dressing in period pieces. First, a mourning brooch I didn’t like, made from a dead person’s hair. I put it as far to the left as it will go, to not touch it with my chin.
And when you said you thought a dress ladylike, I bought one, too. I spun for you and showed you the overcorset, like a maid on a bucolic picnic. You rucked up my skirts and grabbed my waist. I listened to the bentwood rocker squeak, in a struggling-to-breathe, tight-laced daze.
Today I looked at my hands, and they seemed more transparent than yesterday; I am a ghost haunting myself. Even the kitchen kettle no longer knows my name. I stir the sugar for your orange pekoe, thrice clockwise, just the way you like.
In the silvered reflection, I see a wild-eyed girl with a bovine face. I have become a stupid, stupid milkmaid. With dumb calf legs, tripping in skirts for a chance at a rocking chair ride again.
I think if you asked, I would throw myself in front of a moving train. Or at least sacrifice half a foot.
I could die, and you’d still be touching that dollhouse window frame.
In these little houses, he has taxidermized animals. Lizards, mostly. How strange they look against the flagstone walkways and crenellated towers—scaly tails shadowed on Spanish moss, posed in that era’s clothing. At the beginning, I wondered if I would end up living in that house, too—a butterfly, flensed and fleshed, in a picture frame.
The one he calls Eunice; he can’t stop touching. He has made a strawberry bonnet for her from my favourite basket in the kitchen, and now I have to be careful about how I stack the apples; the waxed surfaces seem to sneak through when I am not looking.
I helped him research petticoats and what muslin to use, how to pad her bosom with cotton batting. He posed her as a coquette, coyly riding the swing.
She’s in love with lizard Henry, in his knee breeches and pompadour hair. He watches her as she pumps higher to touch the sky. You just know that he would jump off the widow’s walk, to see if he could fly, if she told him to.
I think, I am lizard Henry. In all the things I do for you. Structuring my days around estate sales and reading everything about horsehair sofas and doors with skeleton keys.
The way I lag an uncertain step behind and have begun dressing in period pieces. First, a mourning brooch I didn’t like, made from a dead person’s hair. I put it as far to the left as it will go, to not touch it with my chin.
And when you said you thought a dress ladylike, I bought one, too. I spun for you and showed you the overcorset, like a maid on a bucolic picnic. You rucked up my skirts and grabbed my waist. I listened to the bentwood rocker squeak, in a struggling-to-breathe, tight-laced daze.
Today I looked at my hands, and they seemed more transparent than yesterday; I am a ghost haunting myself. Even the kitchen kettle no longer knows my name. I stir the sugar for your orange pekoe, thrice clockwise, just the way you like.
In the silvered reflection, I see a wild-eyed girl with a bovine face. I have become a stupid, stupid milkmaid. With dumb calf legs, tripping in skirts for a chance at a rocking chair ride again.
I think if you asked, I would throw myself in front of a moving train. Or at least sacrifice half a foot.
I could die, and you’d still be touching that dollhouse window frame.