As a mouse, I’m not usually privy to information, or at least any information that I find interesting, or applicable to my life. As a mouse, I spend more time in my roommate’s compost bin than I do contemplating the reasons behind anything, and love for me smells like the peanut butter on the mouse traps she leaves behind the oven.
It was night, or at least, it was dark. My tail ached, which only happens when it’s going to rain. In this city, there’s a constant throb. My mother in law told us not to move here, but bad weather wasn’t enough of a reason to stay put. There are opportunities here. Also, she’s a big pain in my little mouse ass.
Sometimes, I watch her sleep. Not my mother in law, but my new roommate. She is only five feet tall, but to me, she is a snoozing giant. I feel small the way I’m sure she feels small around other humans. I want to talk to her, I want to make us coffee and sit and gossip. She is only aware enough of my presence to lay traps and pour plaster into the door of my living space and be extra vigilant about sealing her food containers. I forgive her for it all, and I long for her friendship. On the rough days, when she cries, I wish I could emerge and comfort her without eliciting further melancholy.
This night, I curled up in the corner of her tiny room. There was another body in the room, for the third night in a row. They lay side by side on the bed, carefully not touching. She had climbed into bed, wearing tiny shorts and a tiny tank top. She slid across the bed and settled as far from the door as possible, facing the window. A few minutes later, he walked in, and stood next to the bed.
“I can sleep on the couch if you want,” he said, hesitantly. “If it helps you sleep better.” A pause; palpable, painful. My heart, already speeding along doubled in it’s rapidness. She spoke “No. Sleep here. You’re over-thinking things again.” A hint of acid in her voice. He matched her pause.
“Just trying to be considerate.”
She snorted.
And there they lay, both now on their backs. He closed his eyes, she kept hers open and stared up through the ceiling. She was carefully watching the International Space Station, or maybe she had picked a point beyond that. She could’ve been staring into another universe, or another life she was to live in the future.
As a mouse, a little creature not privy to information and not subject to acute sadness, I couldn’t have known all there was to know about the situation. I couldn’t have known how she cared for him, how he had come from thousands of miles to see her, and how his sudden doubts had ruined it all. I couldn’t know that she resented his half baked love. I couldn’t know that she wanted nothing more than for him to sleep on the couch, but couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping without him.
But I noticed the smell of unrealized potential. I saw her keep her eyes open and I watched her tear ducts swell slightly. I heard her breathing slow.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll arrange the most colorful carpet fibers I can pluck into the world’s smallest proxy bouquet for her. There’s so little I can do, as a mouse.
