Silly Putty
When she went to the bathroom, someone replaced her with a pod of Silly Putty. The hands looked normal enough when she came back, idle on the dinner table, but were clearly unset clay when they tried to lift the bowl of beans. It was a darned good likeness, but they didn’t get the hair quite right, more scalp than I remembered, and overall, too much of everything, ears suddenly long and flat, eyelids not quite fit to the sockets, sour mouth that could eat a table whole. And the skin—smudged and gray, imprinted backward with every insult she thought I’d said, so later she could look in a mirror and relive them.
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