TF (various inanimate including cars, motorcycle, sofa, statue)

I guess I was partly to blame. I was the one who'd introduced Sally to imprinting.

I'd been transforming for a little over a year. I was working a stressful job, not sleeping, the whole deal. My doctor was a good guy.
He said, I could put you on tablets or you could take this. He opened a drawer and handed me a little bottle.

I drank the contents of the bottle and turned into a rock for 24 hours. It was the best rest I've ever had.

Later on I discovered how to get more transformation potions (you really had to know the right people) and started to become a casual user. I didn't use every day, or every weekend. About once a month or
so I'd take a break as a rock. Or sometimes I would become a bald eagle and fly around the neighbourhood. (Tip for those new to
transforming: if you're going to become an animal, become something protected.)

Then I met Sally. I was at a party and a mutual friend said to us, "Here, you're both crazy. You're perfect for each other." Before the night was out we were a couple.

I fell deeply for her. She was blonde and cute and sweet on the surface, but had a wild spirit on the inside. I discovered her love of
classic rockabilly. I discovered the discreet tattoo she kept hidden. And I discovered if there was something completely outrageous, well, Sally wanted to be in the middle of it.

I told her about the potions. How could I not? And a whole new world opened for her.

We were rocks. We were eagles. And then Sally discovered an online source for potions. (It was said that only the pure of intent were
able to google it.)

At first she tried the classics. Becoming bubble bath. A pile of fruit. A plate of spaghetti.

What she really fell for, though, was imprinting. I came home one day,
inserted my key in the lock and leapt a foot backwards seeing Sally's laughing face on the door-knocker. She merged with a chair. A wall. The whole damn house.

"Couldn't you just turn youself into a sofa?" I said as I sat on her.

"You're missing the point, Rick," she said, her face part of the cushion. "Sure I could, but I'd miss something."

"What's that?"

"History. I can feel everything about this old sofa. All the people who have rested on it. All the nights you fell asleep on it. And, oh
yes, a few conquests on it as well."

"Jealous?"

"Nah. Well, I'm not. The sofa is."

A couple of weeks later she came to and asked if we could talk.

"About anything. You know that."

"Well, it's about your motorcycle."

"My Harley? Sure. You want to ride her?"

"No," she said. "I want to be her."

An hour later I was watching as Sally swallowed her bottle of imprinting potion, then grabbed the handlebars. She seemed to be pulled into the Harley.

For a second all was silent. Then her face appeared on the front of the motorcycle. I'd never seen her happier.

"Ride me, Rick," she said. "Ride me hard."

I took her on a three-hour trip through the mountains. She squealed with joy at every corner she rounded.

For a couple of months we'd go out every weekend, hitting the highway, me in leather and her in the Harley.

Eventually, her ambitions grew.

I caught her merging with the neighbours' SUV. Eventually she confessed she'd been half the cars in the street.

She looked miserable. My heart felt for her.

I had a solution.

Classic car meets were held pretty much every weekend in our state. We'd hit the road, and enter into a world of hot rods, muscle cars and convertibles.

The thing is, despite crazy amounts of people attending these things, it was still relatively easy for Sally to merge with the cars. I'd keep a lookout and she'd swallow her potion and be absorbed.

And what cars to be absorbed into. A '57 Chevy. A '66 Pontiac GTO. Studebaker Golden Hawk. The Rocket 88. And what owners. You'd never think these cars were getting on for more than six decades old. They gleamed. They shone. They were loved. And apparently they loved in return.

"I was a pink Cadillac today," Sally told me. "And she loved her owner."

"Well, of course she did," I said.

Sally shook her head. "No, Rick, she loves her owner like I love you. She's just so damned happy that he drives her every weekend. She feels useful. She feels fulfilled."

Well, what can you say to that? Particularly when your girlfriend had been that car that afternoon.

Then came the weekend we went to a celebrity car show. You know the type of thing - famous cars from movies and TV. James Bond's Aston Martin. The Ectomobile from Ghostbusters. And the 1966 Batmobile.

I was drawn to it immediately. I'd been a fan of the show as a kid - who hadn't? - and I could see Sally was mesmerised by it as well.

"Like it?" one guy in a Batman T-shirt asked me.

I nodded. "You the owner?"

"Who, me? I wish. No, the guy who's looking after it today just slipped off to the toilet. I'm just a fan."

I nodded. "Me too, I guess. I never thought I'd actually see it in person."

Batman T-shirt brightened. "Actually, there were four Batmobiles used in the TV show at various stages of the show. The original was based on a Ford Futura, a concept car Ford had produced in the 1950s."

"Uh-huh."

"Here's the weird thing. When it was customised it was so damn heavy
that it was incapable of doing more than 10 miles an hour. All the footage you see of the car in the TV series is sped up to make it look like it's going gangbusters."

"Hey, do you remember what Robin said every time they started it up?"

"Sure do. 'Atomic battery to power. Turbine to speed!'"

And that was when the Batmobile's engine turned over.

T-shirt and I just looked at each other. "That's weird."

I suddenly realised I couldn't see Sally.

The car revved again, as if it was about to take off.

I was afraid it was just about to do that.

Suddenly a dozen people came running out of nowhere. "Shut it off! Shut it off!"

"I can't! There's no keys in the lock!"

"Pop the hood! Disconnect the battery!"

The car spluttered to a halt. Just then I felt a touch on my arm.

"Hey there, honey," Sally smiled. "Shall we make tracks?"

"Where did you think you were going?" I asked her when we were safely back home.

"Gotham City, I guess," she laughed. "I know it was bad of me, but I was part of the car and she was just so bored. She's carted to car shows on a trailer. Hasn't been driven since the 1970s."

"Honey, I think we better lay off the car shows for a while."

"I guess." Then a dreamy look entered her eyes. "But I did read about a boat show coming up in San Francisco. Apparently there's going to be a real atomic submarine."

"You're not going to be an atomic submarine!"

"Spoilsport," she said, poking out her tongue.

What can you do with a kook like that?

Reader, I married her.

We spent our honeymoon in New York. I hadn't been there in a decade and Sally had never been there, so we were content to do all the touristy things. Visiting Times Square. Radio City Music Hall. Catching a show on Broadway.

And we saved the most touristy thing for last.

The Statue of Liberty.

She rose up above our tour group. Three hundred feet tall.

As most of the party took photos, I spied Sally disappearing around the base.

With a bottle in her hand.

I smiled.

I wonder how many tourists that day noted that for a few seconds, the statue's face seemed to be completely different?