Diana had a best friend—he was a guinea pig. Literally, I mean: he lived in a cage when he wasn’t perched on Diana’s shoulder or snuggled in the palms of her hands.
The town where we lived was quite comfortable most of the time. Literally, I mean: many things were made of yarn. Pale orange, tan, and gray-pink yarn. We carried a metal currency that weighed down our pockets, like it had the pockets of generations before us.
The walls that surrounded our town had begun to excrete a strange substance, the consistency of ground meat. Diana wanted to take a picture and asked me to accompany her. Everyone had theories about where the substance came from and why. I watched it oozing down the walls, watched Diana take her picture, and had two thoughts: that it appeared we were being tested, and that I was angry at Diana, because I was not her best friend.
When the authorities discovered what was happening with the walls, they showed up in hazmat suits to contain it. Everyone lined up at the top of the hill, in front of town hall, to be disinfected. If we had been tested, I suppose we had failed.
I stood in line and looked over the guardrail, where the highway below extended diagonally into the distance. Cars were leaving. Just a few. Didn’t they need to be disinfected? I had one thought: that perhaps there had been a choice, one I didn’t notice I didn’t make.
Years and years later, our town was even more comfortable than before. Everyone was excellent at knitting, which was fulfilling, because everything, now, was made of yarn. And I mean everything—literally.
I was sure I’d be Diana’s best friend after the guinea pig died. I even went out to buy her more yarn when she ran out. The good, rare, and interesting colors. The vendor asked me how I’d like to pay. I showed him my old metal discs. He laughed mirthfully at me: those coins were relics now. I was allowed to pay in knots.
I gave Diana the yarn. She knitted herself a new guinea pig. She was the best, even in a town of excellent knitters. Perched on her shoulder, through twisted fibers, I swore I saw the yarn guinea pig blink.