A GIRL MADE of GLASS

text by David Willems

illustration by Brian Selznick

I have fallen in love with a girl made of glass. 

 

I have constructed a rubber suit, so that I may hug her without being cut on her sharp edges.  She is more in love with my older brother than with me.  I have roughly thirty-eight more hugs left until this version of my suit disintegrates.

 

"Thank you," she says, her voice a bit muffled beneath the heavy rubber of my affection.

 

•

 

"Thank you," she says, her voice a bit muffled beneath the heavy rubber of my affection.

 

I reply, "You're welcome," though I wish her thanks meant love.  I have roughly thirty-eight more hugs left until this version of my suit disintegrates.  I have built five versions of this suit, so that I can hug her better; and the suits get stronger and more affectionate each time.  She is more in love with my older brother than with me.  It pains me sometimes that I have put in so much effort.  I have constructed a rubber suit, so that I may hug her without being cut on her sharp edges.  When the sun is setting, the glass refracts its orange glow across the neighboring houses and she looks as though she is on fire.

 

I have fallen in love with a girl made of glass.

 

•

 

I have fallen in love with a girl made of glass.

 

I have dated other girls before, but she is special.  When the sun is setting, the glass refracts its orange glow across the neighboring houses and she looks as though she is on fire.  For a long time I pined for her, until one day, in my basement, I had an idea.  I have constructed a rubber suit, so that I may hug her without being cut on her sharp edges.  It took me over a month to construct the first version of the suit from bits of tire I found in the garage, and when I hugged her, I could see her crystalline eyes gazing longingly at my brother.  It pains me sometimes that I have put in so much effort.  I reassure myself that all of this effort must one day be rewarded; that this effort will in fact gain her most desired affection.  She is more in love with my older brother than with me.  Still I work, still I must.  I have built five versions of this suit, so that I can hug her better; and the suits get stronger and more affectionate each time.  We meet at sunset each day, and hold each other tightly for a number of minutes.  I have roughly thirty-eight more hugs left until this version of my suit disintegrates.  Every time we hug she says, "Thank you," and she sheds glass tears.  I reply, "You're welcome," though I wish her thanks meant love.  My older brother often returns from work at sunset, he does not care for this girl and feels that I am wasting my time; though her eyes continue to follow him into our house.

 

"Thank you," she says, her voice a bit muffled beneath the heavy rubber of my affection.