I want to invite you to be a part of my secret society.

I don’t know what it’s for yet. 

That’s not the point. The point is it’s a secret. Like a pearl: a thing I can hold in my hands. We can be two halves of a thing I can hold in my hands. People always mention that poem about the orange. About sharing the orange. Jagged slices, between friends. I want this society to be a shape like that. A whisper we can both taste. 

We can knock on doors and run away. We can throw toilet paper at houses. We can build a bunker, and live in it, just us. Survive on canned peas and touching and dreaming. Or maybe discover a hidden world of people much smaller than we are. The Borrowers. I have a feeling they’re everywhere. That’s why I always lose my glasses. 

We could find them. We could tell them we’ll build a better world for them. It doesn’t matter that they’re Smalls and we’re Bigs because like I said, the secret society is something we can hold in our hands. And they know the blueprint of hands because they’ve seen them up close. They hide behind our teacups. Study our funny fingers. 

It might not be about that, though. The Borrowers. The bunker. The bliss of throwing small things and seeing them land. It might be simpler than that. Just shadows. Just winter. Just the shower water, dribbling down your forehead and onto my wrist. Just you turning the lights out.