Hoosier Tomatoes
They were sitting side-by-side on the kitchen counter, foot-paws bare, toes wriggling, not quite reaching the off-yellow linoleum of the floor. Cast in the soft, golden glow of a singular, sixty-watt bulb, which was hung in a fixture above the silvery, dish-less sink.
Honey-tan mouse and pink-furred bat.
Husband and wife.
Together.
Sitting, talking quietly (as intimate creatures did), holding sturdy, white mugs of creamy-red, stove-hot tomato soup. It was Sunday night, the hands on the clock gesturing at '6:37,' but it was already (long-since) dark. So dark. Except for in here, of course, where the extra-large Sunday paper was in a pile on the Hoosier cabinet, and baby Akira's pacifier was hanging on the little key-rack (with the car keys).
Their daughter in her crib, napping. Having gotten a lot of wide-eyed excitement today. Going to church, and then to Field's grandparents' house. And then back to here for the football games. The Colts game. Adelaide loved to watch Akira watching Field. During those games (all the games), Field would invest himself too heavily in the outcomes. Would get 'excited,' as mouses did. And Akira would sit there and watch her father, intrigued by how he squeaked things at the television screen. And how he would pace back and forth. And Adelaide would watch the both of them. And God would watch them all.
Oh, the Watcher watching the watchers!
A tongue-twister in and of itself. And ...
... sip.
Slurp.
Sip.
Slurp.
"Adelaide ... "
Her head turned. "Mm?" was her soft sound. So much about her was soft. Her touch, and her carnation-pink fur, and the breezy confidence of her. So much softness, and yet so much strength. How he needed her.
"You're, uh ... slurping," Field said, "your soup."
"Slurping ... "
" ... your soup, yes. It's kind of, uh ... noisy."
A toothy grin. "What?"
"It's noisy."
"My soup-slurping? Is noisy?"
A little sigh. "Darling," was his soft, soft breath.
"I didn't know I was doing that," she said honestly, tilting her head, eyes warm. "I guess it's like snoring. No one knows they're snoring until they're told they are. No one knows they slurp their soup until they're told they are."
"Well, I have sensitive ears, is all," was what he said, swiveling his big, fleshy, dishy ears. Ears that were cute. And quite effective, to boot. "I can't help but focus on little sounds. The ones others don't notice."
"I'm well aware," was her whisper. "I know all about your ears." Oh, she did. Yes, she did. It was indicated in her smile. And her breath. "Well, I'll endeavor to drink my soup in a quieter fashion."
A little, lip-biting nod from the mouse. "Thank you."
Adelaide just chuckled to herself as she brought her mug to her lips. And quietly drank from it. Trying not to 'slurp.'
Field took a sip. Sip.
She stopped her own sipping. Looked to him.
And he kept sipping, and then stopped, and blinked, and started to flush. Asking, "What?"
"I'm just observing your technique," she said, giving a soft giggle-chitter. "You're a dainty eater. Or is that 'drinker' ... is soup a food? Can a liquid be a food?"
"I guess it depends on if the soup has chunks of stuff in it ... and ... dainty? I'm not ... "
" ... dainty. You are. But you know I like that kind of thing," she said, of his effeminate, emotional nature. Trailing, turning her attention back to her soup-mug. Closing her eyes. Breathing of the wafting warmth. "This is good."
"The soup?"
"Mm." A pause. A breath. And her eyes opened. "Very ... soupy."
A small giggle-squeak from him, and he swallowed. "Only stands to reason."
"Doesn't it?" A toothy grin.
The mouse, still smiling, taking another sip. And then setting his mug down. Reaching for a green (and cut) celery stick. "You want one?" he asked, gesturing at her with the vegetable.
"Not yet," she said quietly. "No, thank you."
Field nodded a bit, holding the stick. Closing his eyes. And he swung his foot-paws a bit. Just a bit. And he put the celery stick down. Saying, "Feel like a little kid, you know, sitting high up. Foot-paws not reaching the floor."
Slightly turning her head, the bat observed him, and she nodded slightly. "Well, you certainly don't lack the innocence."
The mouse flushed, his ears going rosy-pink (as they often did; one could say that mouses wore their emotions on their ears). "Adelaide ... "
"Mm?" A sip, again, of soup.
"Mm ... I love you," he whispered, looking down to his bare, honey-tan foot-paws, his fur keeping him warm from the chill that was outside the house. It was colder today, certainly, than it had been last week. This was truly a November Sunday.
"I love you, too," was her soft, soft response.
"I just ... I wanted to say it."
A beaming grin from her. "I have no problem with that, darling."
A flush. Biting his lip. And he exhaled through his twitching, sniffing nose. "Mm," he went, in that contented way, making that 'mouse' sound. But there were many, many 'mouse' sounds.
Adelaide, in her head, tried to list them all: squeaks, chitters ... well, those were obvious, though, weren't they? No less pleasant because of their abundance, no. They were sounds she never tired of. To hear someone 'squeak.' It was a cute, light thing. A sun-dappled thing. How did one describe a squeak? Or a chitter? One really couldn't. They were just sounds that had to be heard. And more than heard: felt. They were sounds of expression, and sounds of emotion. To an outsider, maybe 'odd' sounds, or maybe lacking any reverberant 'substance,' but how could anyone say something like that and believe it?
Squeaks and chitters were the purest of sounds.
They were sounds of the pure and the innocent.
Such sounds were the 'theme song' for gentility.
So, mouses did that, yes. Squeaked and chittered.
But, then, the bat reasoned, so do I. I do those things, too. They aren't mouse-exclusive sounds. Though I'll admit that mouses 'sing' them well.
But, surely, there were other sounds?
The less obvious ones. The ones that didn't have proper names. The throaty 'mm' sounds, and the airy, little notes, and the sound he made when she was fingering and thumbing his ear-lobes, when she was sitting on the couch and his head was in her lap, melting in the softest, shiver-worthy pleasure, and his eyes were closed. It was almost like a purr. A mouse-purr.
"Darling?"
"Mm?" The bat blinked.
"You, uh ... you're thinking about squeaks," he guessed. Able, through their bond, their link, to read the basics of her mind. Enough to know the general themes of her thoughts, but his telepathic abilities were simply 'extensions' of her own, and nowhere near as strong.
"Squeaks," she said, nodding. "Thinking 'bout squeaks."
"How come?"
"Cause I like it when you squeak," she whispered honestly, taking a sip of her soup, which had lessened from 'hot' to 'nearly lukewarm.' "Mm ... "
Field flushed, but he smiled, too. And looked, again, to his foot-paws. And then into his soup-mug. Which was almost empty. "I wonder where these tomatoes are from. I mean, like, what kind of tomatoes they make this soup with."
"Maybe Hoosier tomatoes," the bat suggested.
"Really?"
"Well, yeah, they have that big Red Gold plant over in, uh ... Elwood, yeah? I think it's their headquarters."
"Red Gold? The tomato company?"
A nod. "Mm-hmm." A pause. "Remember, we drove by there on our way back from Michigan, after the race ... passed it there and back."
The mouse thought a bit. And then nodded. He remembered. "Yeah ... yeah, you're right, but this soup isn't Red Gold. It's Campbell's."
"Yes, but Campbell's makes soup," Adelaide pointed out. "They don't make tomatoes."
"God makes tomatoes."
"Well, I know that, but ... alright, grow. They don't grow tomatoes. Red Gold grows tomatoes."
"So ... so, you're saying maybe Campbell's got the tomatoes from Red Gold, and the tomatoes came from here, so this is ... "
" ... Hoosier soup."
"Hoosier tomato soup," Field said, nodding quietly. "Mm."
A smile from her. "On the other paw, maybe these aren't even real tomatoes. Maybe it's just ... tomato paste."
"Well ... I think we're overanalyzing our soup."
"Probably." A toothy grin, and she tilted her head back. And polished off the contents of her mug, and then swallowed, sighed, and put the mug down. "Mm."
Field, too, finished his soup.
And they sat in comfortable silence. The kind of silence you could only have when you had nothing to hide. When the creature next to you knew everything about you. The kind of silence you could only attain with maturity.
Adelaide breathed. Her angular, swept-back ears listening to all the 'house-sounds.' The wooden, settling sounds that farm-houses could make. Because of the wind, and because of the elements. She listened to the house. And to the breathing of her husband. Listened with her ears. And with her mind, she 'listened' to their dreaming daughter.
Field wriggled his furry, blunt-clawed toes. He'd have to cut his claws again soon ... and, after a moment, the mouse looked beside him, and resumed with his near-forgotten celery stick. Picking it up. Taking a crunchy, wet bite. Crunch, crunch. And chew-chewing, and then swallowing, and then pausing. Something wasn't right. Oh. He looked to Adelaide. "Uh ... I need peanut butter."
"Mm? For your celery, you mean?"
"Well ... yeah. I don't like to eat it without peanut butter." A pause. "You know that."
She did know that. But she was playful. And responded, "I thought mouses loved vegetables."
"Well, I do. We do," he said. "I just need peanut butter."
"Ah, the protein thing. I bet your mother made you put peanut butter on your celery all the time when you were growing up. So, now, you can't eat it without peanut butter on it. Mm?"
"So?"
"So, nothing. It's interesting." A pause, and a smile. "It's cute."
"You think everything's cute."
"Everything about you. About mouses." A smile. "I like cute. Don't you?" She prodded him a bit, with her winged arm. "You like cute. I know you do."
"Okay, okay ... I like cute," he admitted, eyes shining. "I do." A pause. And he gently poked her with his celery stick, drawing chitters from her. "Can you pass me the peanut butter? It's against the wall there," he said, pointing (again, with the celery stick) to the other side of the sink-basin.
"I know." She reached for it, and undid the red, red lid. And set the lid aside. And put her nose to the top of the jar. "Mm. Smooth." A sniff. She was reminded of peanut butter cookies. Was reminded of sandwiches with grape jelly. Of course, she would always put bugs in her jelly, being a bat. "I don't know how furs can eat the 'crunchy' kind."
"Crunchy kind? Peanut butter with bugs?"
"No. No ... silly." She gave him a mischievous look. "No, the crunchy peanut butter with the, uh, whole peanuts. You know?"
"Oh." A nod. "Mm. Yeah. I mean, if I wanted crunchy peanut butter, I'd find a candy bar with peanuts in it."
A knowing smile. "You never eat candy bars." A pause. Adding, "You feel guilty when you do. You're the only male I've ever known who feels bad about eating candy bars."
"Well, if I DID eat them ... " He trailed off.
A continued smile. "Mm." And the pink-furred bat, taking a slow, leisurely breath, stuck a finger into the jar. Into the thick, tan peanut butter, and swirling the finger a bit, she got a nice little dollop, and then took it out.
Field watched, wide-eyed. His pupils, in this soft light, all wide, and when wide ... cute. It all came back to cute, didn't it? That way that mouses had of disarming you, of making you melt, of triggering that little instinct inside you that made you wanna snuggle and cuddle 'em and keep 'em forever close. Every creature had their own 'advantage' ... to lure and attract you, to use as an aid. But a mouse's cuteness was the most diabolical natural lure God had designed, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. And, yet, somehow ... the bat was hard-pressed to mind it. Even in the slightest. She could let it slide ... bring on the cuteness.
Let it wash over me.
"Now," Adelaide whispered. "Peanut butter." She shifted a bit, turning toward him. Holding her paw out.
"That's, uh ... on your finger."
"Mm-hmm." A tilting of her head, and a wink. "You've sucked on my fingers before, Field. Won't kill you."
"I know THAT," he assured, sniff-twitching his nose. Sniff. Sniff-sniff. He couldn't keep his nose still. Hardly ever. Even in his sleep, his nose and whiskers would move. Would do their thing.
Adelaide would joke to other furs, often, that, 'I've known him to twitch even in repose!' That always drew chuckles from everyone. They always found that to be hilarious, though Field would blink and frown a bit, not understanding why. Which would only draw MORE chuckles.
"You wanted peanut butter," she reminded him.
"For my celery. Like, I ... to get a butter knife and put it on my celery."
"Well, I can't just waste what I already scooped out ... come on," she urged gently. "Mm?" And she raised her paw.
And the mouse, after a quiet hesitation, met her eyes.
Her rich-pink eyes sparking.
And his blue-greys ever-softening. Obliging. As he let out a breath and leaned forward a bit, opening his muzzle. Taking in her finger with the peanut butter on it. Sucking, tongue-licking. All while she watched him.
But peanut butter wasn't so easy a thing to suck. It was rich, thick, dense, and it got trapped on your gums.
But she kept her paw steady.
And he did his best, and then pulled back, so that her finger slipped out of his muzzle. Out of his mouth. And he sighed, licking his lips. "I ... I need a drink," he said.
She handed him his water-glass. And wiped her paw on a dish-towel.
He drank of the water.
"Good?" she asked, sparking silently.
A shy, little nod. "Mm-hmm."
"I think you liked that more than you're admitting. Me feeding you peanut butter with my paw. Like you're a little baby mouse. Mm?"
"You saying I like to be pampered?"
"I'm saying you're submissive."
"Well ... I can't really argue that," he whispered to her.
"I wasn't expecting you to." A knowing smile. "Though, honestly, if you wanna be 'babied,' you'd be better off ... asking for the milk," she whispered, giving him a wink.
The mouse, knowing what she meant, flushing. Slightly changing the topic with, "Well, if you're thinking of putting peanut butter in your fur and having me lick it out ... I'd advise against it. It's sticky stuff."
A giggle-chitter. "Quite a notion, that. Peanut butter in fur. Though who's to say we can't use some other kind of tasty treat? Whipped cream is always good. Don't furs do that? Lick whipped cream off each other?"
"I don't know," was his ear-blushing reply.
More chitters. And a sigh. And, "Oh, Field ... mm ... " A sigh.
"What?" he asked, whiskers twitching.
"Nothing." An assured smile. "I just wanted to breathe your name. I just ... I feel good," she admitted. "Sitting here."
"It's a nice spot," he admitted. "But it's kind of hard on the back," he admitted, "after a while."
"Well, it's a nice spot, yes, but it's more the company," she said, "one keeps." And she met his eyes. Her shorter, rudder-like tail bumping into the toaster.
He looked deep into her pupils. His tail trailing up and into the air.
And she kept that gaze. Kept it locked. Did not look away.
And it was the mouse who blinked first, in his shy, 'eyes-having-to-dart' way, and he sniffed the kitchen air. Smelling the food. Smelling fur. Smelling her. And his ears, they did swivel, and his ropy tail, it did snake.
He remembered how, the other night, she'd kept tugging on his tail. They'd been making spaghetti, and she kept tugging on his tail. Saying she thought it was a spaghetti noodle.
"You know, though," Adelaide said, piping up, bringing him back to the present. "If you'd just eat bugs like I do, you wouldn't have to put peanut butter on your celery."
"I like peanut butter." A pause. "And I'm not a bat. I don't eat bugs. Stop putting them in my food!"
An amused chitter.
Field tried not to chuckle with her. He bit his lip. "Mm," he went. "It's not funny."
"I don't know about that." A pause. A trail. "Want more?" She held up the peanut butter jar, wiggling it a bit. "Mm?" she said, as if goading him.
A sigh. And a smile. And a little, helpless nod. "Sure," he whispered.
And the bat plunged her finger back into the jar, swirling it around, getting a good finger-ful ... and then held out her paw.
And the mouse sucked the peanut butter from her fingers, giving a few errant licks (to catch the parts he'd missed).
And the bat giggle-chittered a bit.
His eyes went to hers (as his tongue tried to work all the thick peanut butter off his palate and down his throat).
"It tickles," she told him. "That kind of tickles, actually. Your tongue on my paw."
A swallow. And reaching for the water-glass again. "Does it?" A sip, and a swallow.
"Mm-hmm."
"Well, it doesn't tickle when I lick down your ... "
"I'm not ticklish down there," she said, grinning, interrupting him.
"Maybe you should put peanut butter down there." A grin.
Chitters! And she, with eye-narrowing mirth, whispered, "What a mind you have, Mr. Mouse! And they say that marriage kills romance." Her eyes gleamed brightly at how wrong such an assumption was. "They don't know what they're missing," she whispered, of the furs who chose to love and not wed. "Anyway, I thought we agreed: peanut butter and fur don't mix. We want whipped cream."
Field turned his head to the refrigerator, which was shut. "I don't think we have any whipped cream." He looked back to her.
And, her eyes meeting him, she whispered, "We'll think of something ... I'm sure ... "
"Mm-hmm," was his airy, barely-audible response. He was already leaning close, closer to her, and already tilting his head.
And her eyes were already drifting shut, as she presented herself ...
... for his kiss. For the kiss. For the meeting of wet, loosened lips, his lips sliding across hers, moving in little, sucking motions. Suck, suck. So gently, so softly, to leave their noses flaring and sniffing heavily, heatedly for air. Saliva stringing, mixing. The heat of it all.
Her tongue, being longer, more versatile, taking a few jabs at his gums.
A squeaky sound from the throat. His paws going to her thighs. Rubbing lightly, and his tail snaking behind him like a fishing line being cast again and again.
And her winged arms moving, and her paws resting on his sides. Holding to his sides ...
... as the kissing began to subside.
As they both breathed.
As the bat swallowed and leaned her forehead against his. Panting lightly. Whispering, "You, uh ... " She absently licked her lips. "You taste like peanut butter."
Field let out a flushed exhale. "You taste like," he whispered back, "tomatoes."
An airy giggle. "Tomatoes ... " And more giggles (and chitters).
"Oh," the mouse breathed, sighing. Tilting his head. Nose against her soft-furred cheek. Breathing of her. Of this spiritual gift.
The femme who was always there for him (as he was always there for her). A pair, the two of them, sharing each other's pains, hardships, hopes, and dreams.
Joys.
Sharing a home, a child, a bed.
A life.
And he remembered the words he'd read.
The words he knew.
He could hear them in his head.
'Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.'
And, the bat, mind close to his, whispered aloud, "First Corinthians. Chapter ... "
" ... thirteen," the mouse whispered, nodding quietly. Nose still in her fur. "A long time ago, I would've ... would've thought that words like that could never be describing something real or attainable." A pause. A breath. "But I ... I was a fool." He swallowed. "I know better now."
"Love and learn, huh?" was her whisper. Velvety, winged arms (with their soft membranes) trying to wrap around him.
"Yeah," he whispered, voice failing him.
They breathed, and they touched, and they felt their temperatures rising, rising. In that slow, inching way.
"Adelaide ... "
"Yeah?"
"I think we should, uh ... get off the counter. It's, uh ... not a lot of room on here to, uh ... "
"Yeah ... "
Field slipped off. Foot-paws to the floor.
And she slipped off, too, standing with him. Or, rather, leaning on him. Nothing more, at the moment, needing to be said or stated.
Everything was intuited.
Everything was known.
No longer needing to ask 'how long, how long.'
But sighing 'how blessed, how blessed.'
And they slowly, paw-holding-to-paw, wandered out of the warmth of the kitchen.
To seek much fiercer, fire-working kinds of warmth.