She has big eyes, like saucers. It sounds cartoon-like but it’s true. Her feet are stitched together with red felt and the shoes she wears are lumpy.

Her hands are stiff, rigor mortis setting in, and her face is pale spare the two awkward red circles on her cheeks. Her nose is a little red thing. They call her Cherry Nose for a reason.

Her hair is stringy, golden wool that has dirtied with age. In some circles they call it dish water blonde.

Some days she lies still, a corpse preserved in ice. Some days she comes alive and trots around the house, living hypothetical situations created by others.

It’s hard to tell which one is the real her, they both seem believable, even if it might be absurd.

In my dreams, I run down a hill and fall in a heap.

I land in the middle of a dancing circle of people I have never met. I don’t dance with them, I can’t. I try and run away, embarrassed to be seen in my ratty night-suit. They follow me, their voices rising with every drum beat. I jog for a long time and realize that I am not tired. Thoughts of better stamina and marathon timing cross my mind even within my dream space.

When I get home, I curl up into a ball on my floor and eat watermelon pieces from a glass bowl. I watch something on television until I feel the floor crack beneath me and I start to fall.

I fall into the dancing circle again and we are back at the start.