There’s a girl I sometimes see at the local park. She’s one of those inflatable girls, the real thing and not one of those pale imitations they sell as “adult novelties.” And she flaunts it too. Her mouth is not a pathetic O, but a confident smile, a bold parenthesis. She likes to show off her midriff, letting the world see how instead of a belly button she has a plug, like a pool toy. In the summer she likes to wear shorts, showing off her long legs with the seams that run down the front and up the back. She steps lightly, only a tiny bit heavier than air.

And every time I see her – and many times when I do not – my head burns with thoughts and desires and lusts that scorch my stomach.

I want to race up to her, pull open her plug, and watch her flop helplessly to the ground. Then I’d roll her up and race home, where I’d gently lay her out on the bed, remove her worthless clothes, and blow her up again. I could keep her in a box under my bed, a secret to everyone, a toy. Better that I treasure her than some scumbag coming along and deflating her only to sell her off. There are worse fates than belonging to me.

But she would probably hate me for doing such a thing (unless she wants to be conquered in this way, but that’s crazy), and rightly so, because inflatable people are still people (or so I hear). But maybe she knows how to turn people into balloon people. Maybe she’d say, “Let’s see how you like it,” and made me into a balloon boy. Maybe then she’d pull my plug, and let me flop helplessly on the ground, my mouth a pathetic O. I don’t know that I would hate it. I might want to embrace her all the more, balloon to balloon. I might enjoy being only a little bit heavier than air.

How did she become a balloon girl anyway? Was there a magic spell? Was she once a normal girl of flesh and blood? Or was she born that way? Did a balloon mother and balloon father who loved each other very much procreate and have a balloon daughter? Was she raised in a balloon house? Did she sleep on a balloon bed? Play with a balloon dog or cat with blunt, air-filled teeth? I wonder if balloon people are like us, if they eat, if they sleep, if they wear clothes, or if they usually go around naked, and this girl is a pervert among them for wishing to be clothed. Or perhaps she is simply a carrier of inflatability. Maybe she was normal until she had relations with a balloon boy, and now she’ll infect anyone she gets too close to, and they in turn would infect others.

Maybe it would be sweeter if she let me do such things willingly. I would hate myself if she cried. But if she let me, I would tenderly hold her from behind in my arms, gently open her plug, and lovingly squeeze. She would gasp in terror and delight as she grew smaller and emptier. Then I’d inflate her again, and I’d run my hands all over her smooth, shiny body, a plastic shrine, a treasure given willingly.

She’s always alone, but never lonely. Is there already a boy to go with her, balloon or not? Is the park just a respite, a place where she can enjoy the sight of birds by herself? Maybe she doesn’t need anyone, because of some inflatable secret. I want to know, but I don’t know how to ask. I need to know, or I might be the one who bursts.