Mouse Needs a Brain!

For some reason, no one stops us as we approach the exit. I’m amazed. Here’s this blonde giant carrying an AK-47 and while he’s not exactly dragging me, do I look like I’m going with him willingly?

I spin around as we approach the exit, looking for someone, anyone, to stop us. I shake my head, astonished.

I glance at AK-47. “You know you can’t just walk on the street with a gun slung over your shoulder.”

He looks at the gun and nods. “You’re right.” He removes the strap from his shoulder, leans the gun against the wall, and shrugs.

My mouth drops. “You can’t just leave a gun there.”

“Harmless. It’s a toy,” he says. “We’re environmentalists. We’re lovers, not killers.”

He smiles at me with glowing white teeth, the color of his eyes glacially cool, yet warm as he stares just a little too intently.

“But you beat up Tom.”

“He’s the other agent?”

I nod.

“That was Britt. I think she’s a part-time dominatrix,” he says. “Or full time. She’s scary.”

We ascend the stairs that lead outside. My brain feels like scrambled eggs with gloppy milk and cheese.

“You’ve broken the law.”

He nods. “Yes. This I understand. But no one got hurt.”

“Tom got hurt.”

“You’re in love with this Tom? You’re very fixated on him.”

“Wouldn’t you care if something happened to Britt?”

He grins. “Not so much. She’s—”

“Scary. Yeah. I get it.”

I stand at the exit, which he’s pushing through, wondering what I should do. Why isn’t anyone stopping him? Why are none of my colleagues following us?

The blonde giant (I can’t well call him AK-47 now that he’s gotten rid of his toy gun, now, can I?) extends his hand. “My name is Per.”

I look at his big, big hand, vaguely wondering if what they say about hands is true, especially since I haven’t been in a position for a very long time to evaluate that truth. I extend mine, which immediately gets lost in his.

“I’m Georgie.”

“Georgie. I like it. It’s like that place that soul singer sang about.”

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as if that might enhance flow to my brain and make it work because frankly I’m at a loss. I thought by now the situation would have been taken out of my hands, but, no. Of course, that was too much to ask for.

“You will get a headache like that,” Per says.

“My vacation wasn’t long enough.”

Per grins. “Let’s make it longer, shall we? There’s so much I want to do.”

“What about your environmental activism?”

He nods, his features suddenly becoming remorseful. “You’re right. I must think intently about that. Perhaps over a rum punch on a white sandy beach? In south Florida, right?”

There’s a bench to the immediate left as we exit the building. I flop down on the hard wood, feeling like my brain has seeped out through pores in my toes. (Are there pores in my toes?) Per sits next to me, extending his long legs.

“I feel like I’m in an American movie,” he says.

“Strangely, so do I. Any idea how it ends?”

He shrugs. “It all depends on if you’re Meg Ryan and I’m Tom Hanks or if you’re Glenn Close and I’m Michael Douglas.”

I squint at him. “Do I even look like Glenn Close?”

“No. But you don’t look like Meg Ryan either.”

I groan, lean forward and let my head slip between my knees. Not because I feel light-headed but because I need blood to get to my non-functioning brain.

He pats me on the back. “There, there little bear. Things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

Worse, I think. Things are much worse than they seem.

 

end 10/15/2017

Sascha Darlington