Lessons From the Kissing Booth

It was in the soft hours just before dawn, when the light has a watery gray quality even in my dark bedroom, that I came up with my plan to miniaturize you. The instructions for how had been there all the time, hidden in the even fall of your breathing and the scent that wafts up sometimes from the neck of your shirt. It's a common misconception that all that's needed to fit someone in your pocket is to build a shrink ray, but that's simply not true--each person miniaturizes in their own way.

Once I unlocked the plans it was only a matter of gathering the right tools. I assembled the machine in secret, gathering a wrench here and a pile of ashes there, the color yellow and a screwdriver and five elephant molars. A waterwheel and the headwaters of the Nile, five rocks from inner outerspace, a sledgehammer, three nails. All the things you would expect.

I don't know if I want you in my pocket, of course. Still, it's nice to know that I could if it turns out that I do.