the psyche of a paramecium, by sophie leblanc. Paige Milton's research file #42: Real-life Testimonials "My boyfriend is a single celled organism. Imagine a gigantic cell, scuttling down the street with millions of cilia, almost strutting towards you. You can see its insides, the macronucleus, the micronucleus. You think you've been reading the Biology textbook a bit too much, but he's such a sweetie. He hands you a sloppy bouquet of cytoplasm." -Caitlin Draymer, Newark, New Jersey. "Having a paramecium for a husband teaches you a lot about learning to accept your differences and proceed with a relationship through thick and thin. Larry isn't much of a conversationalist, but on the other hand, I'm not asexual. It's all about compromise. My only qualm with Larry is that he often makes a mess. His cute, fumbling hair-like structures can never seem to pour the coffee right. I keep telling him to talk to a physiotherapist about that, but he just never gives me a straight answer." -Olivia Omega, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. "I think the thing I loved most about Gregor when I first met him was his innately sensitive motives. He is a true nice guy, really someone I wouldn't mind introducing to the parents. He's not talkative, but I like that in a man. Clumsy? Yeah, he can be clumsy sometimes. But when he bumps into something, he'll instantly reverse direction. He seems to have very good reflexes." -Janet Finch, Sacramento, California. "Mirabelle. The love of my life. The shining nucleus of my soul. Just her gigantic, hairy presence in the room sets my mind at ease. I will love her until the stars burn out, until the sun implodes, until the Earth is sucked into a black hole, and until humans go extinct and the planet is taken over by an alien race from the planet Zorgon. Mirabelle is my savior. Mirabelle is my conscience. Mirabelle is perfect in her divine simplicity." -Pierre, Lyon, France. *** Paige closed the file and put it into its cabinet, then sat back with a sigh. Sweat dripped off of her temples and down her neck, irritating the sunburned skin. The young reporter rubbed her forehead, and leaned across her desk to push open the single window. The stress was beginning to pile up as the deadline for her expose on "The Psyche of the Paramecia" loomed closer. It was a hot day in Dallas, and the corner office she was stuffed in wasn't the right kind of environment to write her hard-hitting tabloid article in. She stood up and strode to the door, her characteristic black heels making a satisfying click on the linoleum floors. The black and red checkered tiles of her office always led her to believe that she was working in an unused kitchen. Walking through the halls of the circa 1960's office building, Paige hears snippets of conversation. Every time she hears something interesting, she briefly considers writing it down. "Sometimes melted cheese can sort of taste like penicillin." She didn't take out a pen. She didn't see the point. Walking to the doors of the circa 1960's office building, Paige hears conversation directed to her. Every time she hears something like this, she wants to write it down but finds herself full of some kind of inexplicable fear. "Hey Paaaigey. You wearing a bra today? I can see your nipples." Brian Wilkinson, sports editor. Typical chauvinistic male. Goes to the bar with his buddies to drink beer instead of going home to his blonde wife and three children. Has probably screwed all of the waitresses at the local Hooters. Paige didn't care what he said, so she didn't look back. She shut the words out of her mind like a bear trap shutting on a man's leg. She only wished it could be that easy, SNAP. Charlie was around the corner, sitting on his regular bench. "My blonde beauty," he remarked as she approached. "Charlie, I'm a redhead." "That matters not to me." Typical Charlie talk, with a wink thrown in and an arrogant smirk. Paige sat down next to him, perching her petite body on the cloth-covered part of the bench where Charlie had laid out his trench coat. The chalk drawing on the pavement in front of his was so cliche, it made her laugh. "Did you draw that?" Charlie pointed at things with his long umbrella. "It's a small stream, with a bridge, and a merry-go-round, and penguins." Paige nodded her approval. "What do you know about paramecia?" "They're very small... they're beautiful." Charlie thought back to Biology. "I always thought they were-" "Hold on a second." Paige rifled through her purse and pulled out the tape recorder. "Go again." "Small. Beautiful. I always thought they were perfect, almost poetic. It's close to proving my theory that if people would just stop thinking so much we might be in a better place. The paramecium is a streamlined human being. It does what we do- eats, reproduces, moves on. Sleeps. Develops complex relationships with its surroundings. But you never see a cell in a therapist's office. If humans could think backwards and grasp some of the power the paramecium have, we would be unstoppable. But maybe we would have no will to want to do something that warrants being stopped." Charlie's philosophical rant trailed off, so Paige pressed the stop button on the tape recorder and quietly put it away, measuring her words in her mind. "Paramecia have no gender. No sex. They reproduce asexually, or by conjugation. Not very passionate. You could say that sets us apart- even if humans were reduced to the smallest of instincts and reflexes, we would still have sex." She looked up into Charlie's eyes. "What's your last name anyway?" "Birch." "And how old are you?" "Twenty-five." "A bit young for an 'expert', but it'll do. I'll quote you in the article. A fake name, if you want." Paige stood up and went back to work. Determined to make this article work. *** "The Psyche of a Paramecium" hit America with a philosophical jolt. It was a hit with most of the world, and the success spiraled Paige out of the tabloid industry with the harsh bang of being fired. At the Texan Reporter, they had no need for a story that university professors read. And university professors did read it. The day after being fired, Paige was out looking for a new job. Charlie was in the park, Brian Wilkinson was at the office making lewd comments to the secretary, Laney. Paige's ex-boss was scouring the script writing workshops for new talent. Paramecia were swimming in their ponds. Paige dumped her coffee into the public garbage can. It had the texture of gasoline, and that weird, shiny film on top. Unhealthy coffee. She was still dressed like a high class reporter, using her clothes to fool herself into thinking she was someone she wasn't while she applied at Starbucks and Kinko's. It was two PM. Charlie would be in the park by now. She decided to join him. Paige took her seat on his trench coat. Charlie seemed to be passed out, baking in the sun. "Hey there," she said. Charlie woke up. "Hello princess." Arrogant smirk. "The article was a success. Thank you for your input." "It wasn't a problem." Charlie's facial features assumed a dreamy gaze to the top left corner of the sky. "I know my Biology." Paige nodded. "Without you, I would never have thought to put a philosophical edge on this story. It's been looked at by professors. Have you read it yet?" "I don't follow the tabloids. Do you have a copy on you?" "No." "I didn't expect you would. You don't seem the type." "What type do I seem like?" A hesitant pause. "This type." Charlie cupped Paige's hands in his hands and kissed her gently on the mouth. He let go of her. "The type that would understand that." For the first time, Charlie stood up and walked over his chalk drawing, across the grass field, and off into the sunlight. Paige watched his silhouette and saw it slowly transform as it got farther away. Saw it change into the shape of a cell. Blinked. Thought, "I've been spending too much time reading the Biology text book." She knew he'd never be back. Three days later, Paige took a plane to San Diego. She didn't look out the window. You'd never see Paige in a therapist's office.