A.R. Lamb
 

The mate whistled with dismay.

None of the hatchways or gangways had been designed with her diameter in mind, so a makeshift tent was erected on deck.

She lay there in the green light and read their fortunes with an absentminded style which convinced them that she wasn't just fat in space but in time as well: no precognition was involved, and therefore little chance of error.

When she told the mate that he'd leave the ship at the next port in order to become her personal incubus his laugh curdled in his throat. Somewhere over the next few days he was already in love with her. The link between now and then was difficult to fathom because he felt no attraction whatsoever. He didn't even feel the kind of repulsion which might turn into attraction.

He didn't know that in mid-ocean a storm would deprive him of his noodles.

Her tarpaulin was washed clean away, to reveal her lying helpless and impartial while the sea exploded over her bows.

The mate dragged himself along the rail towards her, carrying in his mouth a kiss of life.

Not only her personal incubus, but also her constant crane. Not only her constant crane, but also her implacable ambassador. Not only her implacable ambassador, but also her ruthless impresario.

He would smooth her path through countries thick and thin. Only he could relieve her of the weight which was both her burden and her glory. At the same time he'd be her anchor in the present, otherwise she'd inevitably become so smeared out into both future and past that she'd lose all power of speech.

After he'd incubated her she'd feel so light that there seemed no earthly reason why she shouldn't just billow up to the ceiling. Her sighs as she floated off to sleep were all the reward he required.

Soon she became infallible: "Tomorrow we will be married," she predicted one night.

And lo and behold they were.
 
 
 
 

In Posse: Potentially, might be ...