Sharing House Kaylee Schofield
I first spotted one while examining a bewarted decorative pumpkin which, at the time, sat on my dresser, inquisitive as a snail. After my ogling set
to work upon its image with the systematic ease of a trash compactor,
I began to pick out a face amid the bubbling flesh, as occurs with practically every inanimate object I see, nowadays. There, no, there, a creased,
overhanging forehead, here and under and at this angle, a weak, petulant chin. I find faces everywhere.
The pumpkin, I grant you, was a ruse, as my real fascination came
shortly afterward. You see, behind the chief boil, a skeletal chunk of lumpy lava-lamplike gunk without the glow, although it was daylight in my
bedroom, so I couldn’t have known for sure—behind the boil protruded a sticky leg. I do not mean sticky in a stuck sense, but in a stick sense; his leg, and the extent of him that followed, consisted of what looked like minuscule toothpicks colored beige. His five limbs plus tail allowed him to roll like the sharp metal jack in a child’s game, cartwheeling smilingly, I felt sure, to a tinny circus tune too small for my ears to pluck from such a negligible volume of air. He grinned with his curved line of a smile too large for such a stick face, waving fingerlessly, a mittened child gathering snowballs—or iceballs—in preparation for the oncoming bicycle.
I crooked a pointer-finger ledge and held it out to him, enchanted,
when much to my delight, he took a flying leap, limbs starlike, and
scampered up my shoulder—only to peel one of my cheek-pores open
and dart inside.
Ever since then, I’ve fallen victim to a rather curious biological problem. You see, this imp (Peter, as I’ve chosen to christen him) has an affinity
for the visual arts to the point that he complained incessantly during his
first week of residence. Why, you ask? The absurd creature missed his
finger-paints and insisted that I procure new ones for him. As the only
maternal figure he appeared to possess, I felt obligated to indulge his
request this once, assuming that he would restrict himself to the painting
of construction paper, birch bark, or perhaps, Lord-willing, his own limbs (that ghastly beige color of his fills me with perpetual woe). However,
during express moments of jealousy in which he notes—naturally, by
peering out of my cheek-pores—that I have become fully distracted from
his personal needs, he peevishly sloshes his red finger-paint across
each of my cheek regions in order to remind me of his presence. Rather
irritating, but there it is.
This, my poor sweet William, accounts for the insufferable redness
that bursts into my cheeks every time you happen to speak with me. My
perceived “blush” results not from any feelings of tenderness toward you, but from the impudent whims of a jealous finger-painting imp named Peter who resides in the various pores lining my cheeks. And you thought that I was interested! Well, I do hope that my little story cleared things up.