Mouse Is Dead?



Mouse Is Dead?


“Frick, he killed her” that was my first thought when I saw Tom kneeling over Mouse, blood dripping from her head. Partygoers stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. I knew she drove him crazy, but who thought he’d kill Mouse? Sweet, funny, pain-in-the ass Mouse. Then I saw red. I steamed down that hallway, pushed him on his ass. He looked up at me like I was the crazy one.

“What did you do to her, you miserable piece of . . .” My mouth was dry, as arid as the Sahara.

“Calm down, mate, I didn’t do anything to her,” Tom said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and pressing it to Mouse’s scalp.

Then I noticed that her eyes were open. She was looking at me. I knelt next to her and grabbed her hand. “Are you okay, kiddo?”

“What?” she said, then squeezed her eyes and said it again, actually she yelled it. “What?”

“Are you okay?” I asked again.

She looked at Tom, her eyes wide.

“She can’t hear,” Tom said. “Let’s get her to the house and call the doc.”

A matronly woman stepped forward. “You can’t just move her. She was shot.”

“I know, ma’am. But it is a flesh wound,” Tom said. The woman seemed seduced by his accent. She fluttered her eyelashes at him, gushed, her smile wide.

“Of course, you know best. You English are so smart,” she said, patting him on the arm.

I rolled my eyes. You don’t know how many times I’ve heard women talk about his accent. We go to a bar, the women drape themselves over him; they buy him drinks they offer themselves. I’ll stop there. You get the idea. Wonder if the reverse would be true if I went to England? Do English women like American accents?

“Joe, get the door, will you?” Tom asked as he started to lift Mouse. The moment he touched her, she smacked him.

I grinned. Mouse was alive and well and hitting. Long live freakin’ Mouse.


end 2/25/2017

S. Darlington

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