In over forty years as an inch-high private eye, you were the one mystery I could never solve.
When you were still alive, I was too busy dissecting my own feelings to think about yours. I was too busy wondering why I loved you. Why did I cast away my professional rational, and take up your challenge to duel with those toothpicks? Why did I help you in your vendetta against that radioactive ant? And why, when you were plowed by that bus, did I feel like five centimeters of my inch-high soul had gone with you? Why did I go out of my way to have your remains compacted, per your wishes that you'd expressed that night over coffee?
It's simple enough, looking back. You gave me attention, when most people-even my own lawyer-literally walked right over me. You were obsessed with me. You confessed your love for the entire hallway to hear. You summoned me as an ally, when threatened by that ant's perfect tininess. We could have been a team. We could have had the world. (Or at least a perfectly sized, tiny portion of the world.)
But what I can't figure out is, why did you love me? Surely the world was filled with men teensier, and more travel-sized, than I. Why was I a better option than that ant? Why did you not give a passing glance at that pterodactyl lamp, that insufferable puppy genius, or that duckling with the irritating voice, all of whom where more than noticeably smaller than you? Why was I so special? Was it because ducks and puppies are supposed to be small, whereas I, being a tiny human, stood out? Was it my sexy, Bogart-esque fedora? My classy, public-masturbater trench coat? Maybe it was my suave voice.
It hardly matters now. Because we'll never be together. I was just beginning to realize, after all those weeks of you chasing after me, that I loved you back, when pow, that clown car mowed you down.
We never shared a kiss. Not even a flirtation. Not even a friendly handshake. The only thing that comes to my mind, the closest we ever came to being intimate, was when you first confessed your love, and I stuck my head out of Birdman's pants, because I just couldn't believe what I'd heard and had to see if your expression looked genuine. It did. And that was it.
All I have now to remember you by is the dice-sized cube of your compacted remains, holding the desk lamp that I now write this journal entry under.
The silver lining of all this is that it can be honestly said that our love was the shortest, teensiest, most perfectly miniature affair ever held between a detective and a super-villain. One quick confession, one brief alliance, one very short slash fic on the entire internet. A love that is absolutely the perfect size.
Inch High Private Eye