Let's Go Twitching
PART FOUR OF FIVE
"Didn't fancy you as a twitcher," the skunk called.
Peregrine looked up. Sitting in the sun on a small hill overlooking part of the creek. Within easy walking distance of where the woods started. Near the barbed wire fence that divided his tiny property from her huge one.
"Mm?" she went, stopping. Standing next to him. "May I sit?" she asked with a bright smile.
The mouse nodded. And went, "Twitcher?"
"I assume that's what you're doing. Twitching.'
"I'm a mouse," he explained. "I always twitch."
A giggle. "No, no ... twitching is another word for birdwatching." She let out a huff as she sat next to him. And then breathed deeply through the nose. Her tail flagged a bit behind her, glinting from the light. All of black and white.
"I was, actually," he confessed, "birdwatching." A quiet pause. "But how'd you know?"
"Field sort of clued me in," she confessed. "Said you liked to do that, and when I went to your house and you weren't there, I ... scanned about. Saw you here out here, and figured that's what you must be doing." A pause and a breath. "Thought I might join you."
Peregrine nodded quietly. Flushing beneath his fur. He certainly had no objections to that.
It was several days after the race. It was into June.
The mouse's nose and whiskers twitched and sniffed. And his ears swivelled. And his tail snaked.
She watched his mousey motions. Her own tail flickering in the breeze. And own ears cocked and listening. But he always looked so much more alive than everything else around him. And the way his eyes always darted.
"How are things," the mouse asked, breaking the silence (which was starting to make him uncomfortable), "back at the mansion?"
"Not a mansion," she said. "You know I don't like calling it a mansion."
"Manor, then," the mouse whispered, smiling. "Aren't you to the manor born?"
"It's a house," she emphasized, smiling back. And she let out a breath. "And things are fine."
"You sure?" he asked.
A quiet nod.
"I just ... we haven't run into each other in a few days. I called, and the rabbit answered the phone."
"Aria."
"Yeah ... she said you were busy."
"I'm twenty-two and I run a grocery empire from my country house," the skunk said quietly. "It takes more effort than you think."
The mouse twitched. "I ... I didn't mean to imply that your job was easy. I mean ... I didn't mean to imply that, just cause you have money, you don't have stress. I didn't ... "
"I know you didn't," she said, reaching a paw out to his. Giving it a squeeze. "It's alright."
"So, it's okay? Everything's okay?"
The skunk hesitated before saying, "Everything's fine."
The mouse nodded quietly.
The breeze ruffled through their fur. Her tail flagged. And his hung like a fishing line.
Audrey looked to the creek. How the surface of the water rippled a bit. Rippled as the breeze blew above it. "Which birds," she whispered, "have you seen so far?"
"Um ... today?"
A nod.
"Um ... well, lots," he said.
"That's not very specific."
"I know," was his response. A pause. "Are you a bird-watcher, too?" he asked.
"No. Don't know anything about birds, really. But ... I do LIKE them. I just don't spend much time watching them. In the city, you don't. You can't, really, even if you wanted to, you know?"
Peregrine nodded at that. "Yeah," he whispered. "I guess."
The skunk fidgeted. "So, what've you seen, then? So far?"
"I saw a kingbird."
"Kingbird?"
"Eastern kingbird. They eat insects and stuff, and they can hover. They're black on one side and have a white chest and belly. It's ... it'll come around before too long, I'm sure. It likes to be near the creek."
"Sounds nice," was the skunk's reply. And a slow, inward breath. And a slow release. "And what else?"
"Well ... yellow warbler. Great blue heron. Northern cardinal. Killdeer."
"I know what a cardinal is," the skunk piped in. "Our state bird, yeah?"
"Yeah. Unmistakable."
"And the heron looks kind of like a pelican?"
"Not really," Peregrine told her. "I mean, maybe, in flight, you might ... mistake it for one. But not if you look for more than a few seconds. They look more like storks or cranes, you know. But they're not. Cause they're herons." A pause. "Actually, I would rather have the great blue heron be our state bird. Like, five other states," he prattled, "have the cardinal as their state bird. Why do we have it, too? It's a lovely bird, but ... I think we should have the heron, you know. I mean, his look, and his poise. But he's a predator," the mouse whispered (as if divulging a secret). "And Indiana's got a lot of mice, so ... I think that's why we stick with the cardinal. I think the heron intimidates furs. But I've been, like, three feet from him before. And he's half as tall as me, and he has this ... this absolutely PIERCING gaze, and this razor-sharp beak. And these stilt legs, and ... "
" ... what does he eat?" Audrey asked, eyes wide. Captivated by the mouse's passion for the subject.
"Well, frogs. Frogs and small fish. He hunts in the creek and in the pond."
"Oh."
The mouse nodded. "I don't know why I like birds so much," he whispered, squinting in the sun. And then pupils dilating as the sun went behind a cloud. "They can fly. I don't know." The mouse shrugged weakly. "I just do," he offered weakly, looking Audrey in the eyes. And then flinching from the eye-lock, and then ... looking away. To his foot-paws. To the grass on the small, gentle hill.
"You're named," she whispered, "after a bird, aren't you. Why?"
"It's silly."
"I'm sure it's not," the skunk whispered tenderly. "Peregrine ... "
"Perry."
"What?" She blinked.
"You don't have to keep calling me Peregrine anymore." A pause. A swallow. "You can call me Perry."
The skunk smiled warmly and nodded slightly. "Perry," she whispered. She liked that.
"But, um ... " The mouse cleared his throat, drawing his legs to his chest. Arms around his legs. Knees bent. "I've got grey fur. When I was little, I had a very steely demeanor. I wasn't all giggles and squeaks like baby mice usually are. I was all scared and silent. I don't know. And, cause of my grey fur ... they said I must have the personality of a falcon. 'He's more a falcon than a mouse. He's sharp and silvery.' I don't know what that means. I mean, the whole thing is just ... random, I guess. I don't know if that's really the reason, or if there really WAS a reason." A pause. "There's a tradition among mice ... to withhold the naming of a child until he can walk. Cause, used to, back when the predators used to hunt and kill us all for sport," the mouse whispered weakly, "the mother mice wouldn't name their children. Cause by naming them, they would get attached. And it would be harder when they died. So, they waited." A breath. "So, my parents waited with me, and ... I watched birds even from an early age. My favorite was the kestrel, which is a TYPE of falcon, so I think that had a lot to do with it, too."
She listened. Ears swiveling.
"But they didn't really wanna name me Kestrel. That's more a femme's name. So, they named me Peregrine." And a breath. "So, it's a whole convoluted thing. It's no one thing."
"Regardless, that's a nice story. And it's a lovely name. A very strong, very masculine name."
The mouse let out a short giggle. "I'm not the most masculine of males, if you haven't noticed. I'm too thin. I'm wispy. I'm ... "
" ... male enough for me," she whispered. Interrupting him.
Peregrine's cheeks burned beneath his fur. He swallowed.
"I mean that," the skunk offered.
"Um ... al-alright," he stammered, unable to look her in the eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I'm making you uncomfortable?"
"No!" he whispered with insistence. "No." A pause. "I just ... I haven't really felt like this about anyone since ... " He trailed.
"Since your mate died," she whispered for him.
A weak nod.
"I'm sorry."
"No. No, it's okay. I've ... I've had, what, nearly a year to heal? I'm fine."
"Maybe I should give you some space."
"No, please," he begged, with more desperation than he'd realized was there. "Please," he whispered, trying to reign the sound of desperation in.
"I'm not so good at relationships," she confessed, myself.
"I don't understand why you wouldn't be."
"Cause I'm young and rich and ... "
" ... attractive," he whispered honestly. Nodding.
"Well, it's not always that easy. I mean, pieces don't always make a whole puzzle, you know? It's ... I think you know that," she said quietly.
The mouse did. And the mouse nodded.
"These past few weeks, I've, uh, grown very fond of you. You know? I ... I wish we could see more of each other. I mean ... " The skunk let out a breath. Shut her eyes. Shook her head. "I should get going."
"What?"
"I have a meeting soon."
"A meeting?"
"On the phone."
"Oh."
"We'll see each other later, yeah? Or tomorrow? Or something?" she said.
"Or something," the mouse echoed shyly, nodding.
"Alright." She took a deep breath and stood. "I'd love to hear more about birdwatching. I'd love to go twitching," she confessed, "with you sometime."
"Cause mice are just so suited for twitching," Peregrine supplied for her.
"That's true, but ... " The skunk hesitated before saying what followed. But she felt, today, right now, that something was brewing between them. And she felt bold enough, suddenly, to say, " ... it's not the birds I'm wanting to watch, really." Her voice was at a feminine whisper. And she bit her lip. And gave a tiny paw-wave, mouthing, "Bye."
"Bye," he mouthed back, throat dry. And it must've been a minute, he felt, before he blinked OR breathed. And, by that time, she was already on the other side of the barbed wire fence. Walking back to the big, white house.
And Peregrine sighed. Eying his small, simple house (with its four rooms). On the other side of the creek. And he gave up on birdwatching for now. Instead, padding back to his house. To have a lie down. To gain his composure.
To maybe dream some good dreams.
And to figure out if these feelings were more than just whims.