Saturday, October 10


I'd forgotten all about his Tinkerbell, who used to pose so prettily on the cubicle divider, together with Tintin (mine, long gone now, snitched by a cursed thief in the office), Coco (of Chanel fame, complete with tweed jacket, also mine) and an ugly alien/spaceman/Transformer hybrid (unknown origin, still standing next to Coco).

He took his toys with him when he packed up and left the paper factory. We drifted apart and then reconnected (hate that word, by the way, it's so Facebook corporate speak), especially over the past month or two, in the drinking-dancing lead up to my lurve's wedding. Somewhere along the way, I don't know when, Tinkerbell lost her head. She came back to me last weekend, just before he departed to work overseas, in a jar with two tubes of super glue.

I tried to fix the decapitated toy, but the glue he'd so helpfully included had hardened over the years. In the end, I dug up a tube of my own and got the job done. With her head firmly reattached to her torso (and my index finger to my thumb), Tinkerbell joined the collection of tiny things on my bedside table.

There's a moral in this story somewhere -- except I'm not sure what it is -- about the ties that bind us.

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