I hadn’t seen one like it.  “That’s an original,” I said.  I sat down on the floor to get a better look.

“Well it’s not a copy,” she said and chuckled.

It was a chuckle such as comes from a person inordinately proud of an unearned thing.  “It’s not like it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” I said.  “It’s just different.”

“I didn’t claim it was the prettiest thing you’ve seen,” she said.  “You’re making assumptions.”

“So what if I make them?”

“So what is it makes conversation pointless and boring,” she said and sat down on the floor too.  I think she did it just so I couldn’t get as good a look anymore.  “It’s an original and I was born with it.”

“It’s among the prettiest I’ve seen.”

“Well why don’t you climb inside it then?”

I had to do it, I’m that kind of man.  It was as warm as expected and dark in there; of course she hadn’t dusted it in ages and the edges were a little frayed where the spittle had dried years ago, and I felt it quivering from the weight; it wasn’t made for a full grown person it seems and soon I was tumbling out of it, little figurines and furnishings along with.

But she was happy.  “I always hated that fucking doll house,” she said.

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