Like most things, it started with a longing—I wish you could shrink me and carry me around—before it became a tangible reality. The doctor, who we found in a dark, grisly corner of the internet, warned that shrinkage would be permanent. We weren’t the least bit phased. We’ve long been a decisive pair. Now my wife is six inches tall and she’s with me all the time. We go everywhere and do everything together. I’ve sewn large pockets into my shirts since she can no longer ride safely in cars as she once did. I give her crumbs of food when she’s hungry and drops of water when she’s parched. For exercise, she runs laps around my desk while I earn our living, which, by the way, comes easier now since her smallness, in a way, shrinks everything. Bills. Food. Clothing. Space. We don’t need so much anymore. Her health issues have also improved, eliminating the need for maintenance meds. (We don’t understand the science of that, but we’re grateful nonetheless). The new problem is that she’s lonely. Her friends and family disagree with what they call her subnormal lifestyle, so she has few people with whom to converse. After some discussion, we decided that procuring and shrinking a third was the only logical answer to her friendlessness. We said that this third need not contribute romantically, but that it wouldn’t be ruled out either. Naturally, still being normally sized, it was my job to lure them. I signed up for a dating site and made a few connections that led to some trysts, which all ended in my dismissal. Things went well until I addressed the crux: my tiny wife would like a teeny friend so that her days aren’t quite so empty. They’d all look at me strangely and excuse themselves politely, and that would be the last I heard from them. After the fifth identical occurrence, I told my wife that it was beginning to look dire. Her subsequent sadness was hellacious despite her size, which made me feel guilty and hugely incompetent. She suggested in her microminiature voice that I try a different approach, maybe a less honest avenue. When I questioned the virtue of such an act, she huffed and she puffed and she stomped and she cried and finally I had to accede. A happy wife yields a happy life, after all. The dullest tool in the shed knows that. So the next time I matched with a nice enough lady, I met her for dinner downtown. We wined and dined and went to the movies, while my wife waited patiently at home. At the evening’s end, I invited her back for a nightcap which, of course, included the shrinking pill. Once she swallowed the dregs, I administered the shot quickly into her side before she could object. I admit feeling remorseful until my wife squealed happily and did her celebratory dance. Then I felt quite nice. That was the happiest she’d been in some time, so it was the happiest I had been too.