“You’re just trying to be kind, “ I answered, sniffling a little.
“No,” she insisted. “Slugs are just slugs. Nothing else.” Reaching towards me she added, “But you, you are more than just a slug.”
“I still feel shapeless, squishy, with slimy oozy goop as my shadow. I look like a slow moving sausage,” I complained.
She laughed. “I’ve never had a conversation with a sausage or a slug.”
“You can laugh,” I pouted. “You are beauty and grace. You dance, you fly, you touch, you hold. What takes you a minute to walk, takes me an hour.”
“But how many creatures carry a shimming, spiraling, perfect home on their backs?” she asked.
“Not many,” I replied.
“See,” she said. “Slugs live under rocks, you sleep in a palace. Even I don’t sleep in a palace.”
“You should,” I said, feeling more cheerful. “You wear a beautiful, spiraling nautilus on your head.”