Given your position in the bowl of this curious woman's cupped palm, a thousand feet from the floor of the ladies restroom, the choice is practically made for you. You look into the mother's brown eyes above and nod approvingly. She bursts with excitement and her short bob-style haircut, dark brown with golden streaks, bounces beside her perky cheeks. Her lips are spread thinner in a huge toothy smile. A cavernous red maw recedes into moist darkness behind the white gates.
Her sharp eyebrows lift, "It is my lucky day! Now give me twenty minutes to grab lunch, little man. In you go!" Her mouth opens wide and you sense yourself falling into that pink pit, but the woman's face instead disappears above her round chin. But then your five-fingered elevator comes to halt and returns to her colossal face, "I forgot to introduce myself! Call me Monica."
Monica's hand lowers you down once again, stopping just below her breast. She looks down on you while her free hand cranes overhead, index and forefinger pinching your half-inch body both front and back. Smothered, squeezed breathless and with certain parts of anatomy pressed tight in your flattened pants, you are taken further and further down her torso.
Her hand moves to the side of her wide hips, clothed tightly by crisp, rough jeans. "Wait!" You gasp, "The coat pocket!" You'd expected her to put you in the breast pocket of her loose, casual buttoned jacket, but she hasn't given it the thought. Instead, she forces her fingers down into that second skin of clinging denim, deep into a tight pocket of gray, blue-linted cloth.
Her fingers roll you out of the pinching grip, pushing you further down with just the tips. Deeper into the folds of this dark pocket, trapped in the warm darkness millimeters from her broad hips, there's little you can do when her fingers finally retreat. Your back is against something large and metal with a rounded edge. Spare change?
You feel Monica's movement with each jiggle of her skin, but your sense of space and time are distorted in this place, though you are compressed between a sandwich of tough fabric and skin, time itself is expanded. Has it been twenty minutes? She must be done lunch by now. Let me out! Let me out! Your mind could snap. What were you even thinking!
A breathable hole is opened somewhere above, filling your fabric cavern with cool air for just a moment. Monica's fingernails scratch against the thin walls above you. You're going to be free! Free at last! Monica's fishing fingertips miss you completely, fumbling with coins. Her fingernails scrape by you, almost scissoring you in half. "Watch out! You could have killed me!" Your jailer pulls back as if she impossibly heard you, but immediately you are subjected to the full force of her search as she plunges her hand deeper, all the way to the bottom of the crowded cell. You're smushed flat against her hip, with her fingers firmly at your back.
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