I walked through the open microwave oven door.
"Do me!" I said.
"I can't do it," she said.
"Shut the door and turn the dial!"
The oven ceiling was a good two inches above my head. I was ready for death, though I could have done with a plastic horse to sit on as the plate rotated.
"If you loved me you'd do it!"
Margaret rushed out of the kitchen in tears. Left me all alone.
What had made me think she could kill the man she loved? She'd stayed with me, hadn't she? Through months of watching me shrink from a six foot hunk to a five inch mouse. I jumped out of the oven and made my way to the intercom.
"Margaret, I'm sorry. Please forgive me."
She came and got me and put me on my chair in front of the plasma tv. The big screen.
"So, what's it to be?" she said, sorting through the DVDs. "Gulliver's Travels?"
I shook my head forcefully. I'd had enough of that shit, night after night.
"Inch High, Private Eye?"
She gave me that smile she gave me when she told me she was pregnant, all those years ago. She couldn't have! How could she have got it? It wasn't out for another three months by which time I'd be the size of an ant!
I couldn't contain my glee.
"You've got it! You've got it!" I jumped up and down for sheer joy.
"That's why I couldn't cook you, my darling. Maybe after we've watched this a few times, eh? Maybe when Graham comes round on Sunday. We'll watch this for the last time, all together. Then I'll do a nice roast. With all the trimmings."
Happy Birthday, Mr. DeVice!
11 hours ago