Amoeba (A Microscopic Love Story) 

Amoebas are fascinating creatures. Solitary… usually. They spend their days drifting through what most of us would describe as filth, blissfully unaware that they’re living in filth at all.

But not Jerry.

Jerry wanted more than to drift aimlessly around the murky puddle trapped beneath a microscope slide.

Jerry wanted love.

He searched left. He searched right. He searched up. He searched down.

At one point he even went sideways just for the fun of it. 

That accomplished nothing, but Jerry maintained it had been worth trying.

The other amoebas laughed.

“You don’t need love,” they told him.

They were correct, of course.

Unfortunately, being correct has never prevented someone from being completely unhelpful.

Even amoebas have peers who think they know what’s best for everyone else.

Which I suppose is better than a mother not allowing their child to have a brain.

Anyway…

Jerry watched the scientist through the microscope, using it like a telescope to peer into the lives of humans.

He grew jealous.

Humans held hands.

They hugged.

They kissed.

Jerry thrashed about, vibrating his tiny body until the water around him rippled.

Granted, not enough for anything other than a microscope to notice, but nonetheless, it was still impressive.

The other amoebas fled.

Jerry was used to this.

Jerry was weird.

At that moment, his body ruptured.

It split.

Floating in front of Jerry was…

Jerry.

“You’re perfect,” Jerry said.

“No,” said the new Jerry. “You’re perfect.”

And in that moment, Jerry knew.

He had been searching for his other half all along.