Nope, not like that.
Actually it sneaks under the doorjambs and gets comfortable in the couch cushions, your clothes. Like frying chicken, or worse, frying fish. No smoke necessarily; just a steady hissing you hear; a little crackling here and there, but pretty much an easy lover. Goes everywhere with you, cock-blocking without saying a word; without doing anything; just by being there.
I saw a mouse. I’m as close to phobic as I understand phobias when it comes to mice. In all capital letters phobic. So I sat on the arm of my couch most of the night. And tiptoed through the next day when I found one–maybe the previous night’s dinner guest–in a trap I’d set before I had any real sign of a mouse presence. But I’m phobic. In all capital letters. So I had poisons and traps in here before I had brought in any furniture; steel wool stuffed in most real or perceived holes or gaps. Obviously not all of them…
And stealthily as the mouse spying that deadly peanut butter, It came back.
I do not fear being alone and probably like it way more than is common among the masses. But loneliness is another thug all together. You meet him wearing long sleeves and a fresh edge-up. He sneaks the thug part in over the seasons and by the time summer rolls around you’re trying to figure out how did I end up with tats and platinum fronts while braiding his hair on his auntie’s front porch. How you wonder did my idea of edginess turn to this?
The mouse brought It in with his oily fur full of disease.
My friend came to dispose of the carcass, management promised to send an exterminator, and yet I am feeling as vulnerable as ever. In the arms of the thug yet again, admiring the artistry of the tats but getting lost in the maze of them just the same.
darlene anita scott 