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At one hundred ninety three centimeters he’d been tall, but now, twisted in his wheelchair, he failed to reach 120. He’d always found Gabrielle‘s baby-doll height and form seductive in a slightly pedophilic way. When standing behind her in public one of his simple pleasures had been to rest his chin on her head, an action that emphasized their height disparity.

His ninety muscular kilograms had atrophied to a skeletal 65 which made it easier for pint sized Gabrielle to help him as they navigated through life. He still outweighed her by twenty kilos, but whereas before he had been literally twice her mass now he was only a third heavier than she.

Lovers for less than a year he had thought himself noble when he’d promised to stand by her as her eyesight faded to black. He smiled as he thought back to 1999 when she’d come home from the doctor’s, inhaled, held back tears and announced to him, “I have star gate disease.”

“What, Richard Dean Anderson is MacGyvering your eyesight?”

“What?” she asked ferociously. “I said Stargardt, not Stargate! Asshole.”

He made the noise that had once formed the words, “I love you,” and kicked his head back to look over his shoulder at his still beautiful, diminutive wife. He had married Gabrielle feeling noble, as though he were superior to the vast masses who would likely have abandoned the little girl who now held his life in her blind hands. Little had he realized that he was the one who had, as the saying goes, “married up.”

Away from his computer and its voice giving voder he could do little more than grunt but Gabrielle knew what he meant. She took her hand from the handle on his wheelchair, tousled his hair and said, “I love you too, stud. Hang on and I’ll get you in the shower, lover.”

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