There once was a tiny boy who lived in the cardigan pocket of a very large woman. He couldn’t decide if he was extraordinarily small or she was outrageously huge, but either way, the ratio of him to her was largely (!) in her favor, so he didn’t question it much beyond that. He loved living in her cozy pocket, nestled in the soft facial tissue she always kept there (and thankfully never used), and would occasionally feast on the crumbs of whatever cookie she would stash there for her mid-afternoon “emergency lull snack”, as she liked to call it.

The tiny boy loved nothing more than hanging out in that pocket, making little mittens for himself out of lint that would gather there. He was amused by small strips of white paper that would occasionally come to rest there as well, on which important messages such as “You like Chinese food” and “You will have some new clothes” appeared, and wondered if life outside the pocket were as glamorous as those notes suggested. He didn’t dare peek from the pocket when the woman left home, for fear of falling out or being discovered and perhaps mistaken for a mouse.

The woman knew the tiny boy lived in her pocket and not only did she have no problem with his residency but she welcomed it. Brief glimpses into the warm confines revealed that the little fellow was quite good-looking, with glossy black hair, almond-shaped eyes, a mischievous smile. She had never heard him speak, but at times she did feel the faint vibration of short chortles through the chenille and wished she had the gumption to ask him what was so funny. But she did not want to intrude or violate his privacy, even though she was, essentially, his landlady.