Bluebirds Fall
The cat and mouse took a booth (the plush seats colored a brick-red). Near the back wall. Near one of the two televisions hanging from the ceiling (playing sports games on low-sound; the Pacers were playing Los Angeles, and Indiana was winning; Field liked the Pacers, but not as much as he liked the Colts ... the Pacers were so scattershot). They were on their first date. And, after having settled down, they began looking at the menu. The chatter of the crowd provided background noise. A sort of ambience.
"You like pepperoni?" Akira asked. Looking up to him. She wore jeans and a simple shirt. Regular attire. Nothing fancy. But she looked nice, all the same. And her tail had a baby-blue bow in it. Near the tip. Which showed when her tail snaked from behind her back and into the mouse's vision. The movements of that tail ... almost hypnotizing him. And when Akira realized this, she stopped moving it. And giggled as the mouse blinked. "Field? Pepperoni?" she asked again.
A shake of the head. Shake-shake.
"Oh. Forgot," she whispered, smiling bashfully. "Sorry. Mice don't eat meat, do they? Not even ... chicken?"
"It's okay ... not really, no ... " He was peeking over the top of his own menu. As if he were a child. He was so innocent. Yet he was two years older than she was. And she could've sworn, from the way he talked ... that he'd felt great hurt. Great loss. Great failure. No WAY he should maintain that naivete. He should've lost it. Become bitter and cynical like so many others. But he (as all mice did) had an amazing capacity for endurance. So much stronger than they thought. Prey could admit their weaknesses. Could learn from them. Predators were too stubborn to admit they had any. And their own flaws became their nooses.
"Cheese, then?" the jaguar suggested. Letting out a breath. Watching him.
"Well, we can get personal pizzas ... you know, we don't have to ... "
"Or we can just get a medium and ... have half cheese, half pepperoni. I like pepperoni," she said. "It would be cheaper that way." The mouse had insisted on paying. Even though he'd given up his job this semester to better his grades. And had to be tighter with his money than the jaguar did. She got a lot of support from her family. The mouse got familial support, but not to such a degree as she got it.
"I like the smell," Field said, "of pepperoni. I mean, the spicy ... kind of smell of it. But ... I don't feel good about myself when I eat it. Plus, my body doesn't really like it. You know ... "
"Well ... half-cheese, half-pepperoni? Is that fine. Is what I'm saying," she reiterated.
"As long as we get bread-sticks and cheese."
"Extra cheese?" She grinned. Showing her sharp teeth.
The mouse, nose sniffing the air (the smell of pizza, of food ... everywhere). Sniff-sniff ... twitch-twitch ... and ears going swivel-swivel. Adding to the sense of manic immobility. The mouse sitting, but ... giving off the impression that he'd been scurrying round the room.
"Field?"
The mouse blinked. Blinked away the distractions. Flushed. "Well ... yeah. But, you know, not ALL mice are cheese gluttons. I just happen to be, but that doesn't mean ... "
"Uh-huh."
"Well, it's a stereotype, you know."
"But you like cheese, right?"
"Well ... yes. I do. But ... "
"Stereotypes aren't created ... without a basis. They all have a basis in truth."
"But they aren't ENTIRELY truthful."
"Didn't say they were. They're generalizations. And, generally, mice like cheese. So, in this case, it's an accurate stereotype."
Field tilted his head.
She tilted hers, too. Smiling.
He smiled at her smile. Giggling airily and looking away. Doing so ... with an almost effeminate modesty.
So, they ordered. One order of bread-sticks and cheese (with an extra thing of cheese). And one medium pizza: half cheese, half pepperoni. And a pitcher of Dr. Pepper.
While they waited for their supper to come, they talked. Though it took some prodding on the jaguar's part ... before Field would speak. As if she had to verbally nudge him. To let him know it was okay to use his voice.
"What do you like to do?" she asked. She'd spoken with Field, and ... he'd told of his home. Of the countryside. But she didn't know his likes. His dislikes. His particular interests. "I mean, like ... what do you like?"
His suave response (in his head), was, "Aside from you?" But he bit his tongue on that one. That would be TOO cheesy. Even for a mouse. Instead, he replied, chewing on a straw (with the red stripe on one side, the blue stripe on the other ... white plastic with the bendable end). He chew-chewed absently. "Um ... well, I don't know."
"Field ... "
"Well, I don't ... "
"You do too, know. You do that ... you say 'I don't know.' Is that, like, to buy yourself time to think, or ... is it just a default response? Given in hopes that ... the fur that asks it," she pondered, "will get frustrated and leave you alone?"
"I didn't say," the mouse whispered, "that I wanted you to leave me alone."
"Then don't avoid my questions," she answered. With equal hush. "You didn't at the museum. Don't start now."
A pause.
"Well, I'll go first," she offered. "Me, I like ... music," she said. "That's generic, I know, but ... I do like classical music. Soothes the jungle in me, I guess you could say."
"You like classical music?"
"Uh-huh. The American composers, mainly. Copland. Gershwin. But ... I like the European ones, too. There was this movie I saw ... recently," she said. "The New World. Beautiful film. Just ... beautiful. And it opened and closed with this one classical piece. I think it was by Wagner. I don't know. I've been going crazy trying to find a copy of it, cause it wasn't on the movie's soundtrack. It SHOULD'VE been ... "
Field smiled shyly. Listening. He loved hearing her talk. The way her eyes would gesture. How she would use body language. Move her paws about. She was so animated.
"And I like to play tennis," she continued. "I don't often get the chance, but I like to. Like, for fun, you know. Not, like ... drive the ball through the other fur's frame ... but just back-and-forth. For fun. I like it. And ... I do my fair share of writing. I take pictures, too. But, mostly, I sketch things. And ... " She trailed. And shrugged. "So, I started it off ... now, your turn."
He nodded quietly at that. And let out a breath. "Um ... well, my interests? What do I like?"
She nodded, smiling. Twirling her fork between her fingers. This way and that. Her orange fur and its black markings seemed bolder in the indoor, evening light. Field wondered how she would look under the blaring summer sun. That hot summer sun. He wondered how fierce and wonderful she would look in that nature. But he had to imagine that, no matter the environment, she would be striking. She would stand out.
"Well, I'm ... I like birdwatching," Field eventually stated.
"Birdwatching?"
"Watching birds," he elaborated.
She giggled and stuck her tongue out. "I know THAT. I'm just ... never met a fur who confessed to birdwatching."
"Well, now you have." He clutched at his tail for a moment. Letting it go. Before grabbing it again. And then ... once more, letting it go.
"What's your favorite bird?"
"Um ... hard to choose. I can't pick just one. I think I could narrow it down, though, to ... maybe four. And, maybe, if I HAD to choose one, I could, but ... "
"Which ones?" she pressed.
"Mm ... Northern cardinal. Northern mockingbird. Ruby-throated hummingbird. Great blue heron. The cardinal's our state bird, but I think the heron SHOULD be. But they're both ... very dignified." The mouse considered. "I mean, there are flashier birds, you know. The indigo bunting ... rose-breasted grosbeak ... "
She giggled. "I'm sorry ... I'm sorry ... "
"You think it's funny?" He smiled slightly.
"It's just ... I don't know. No, it's not," she assured. "Just, you're rattling these things off like they're, like, everyday things. Common knowledge."
"Well ... why can't they be? I mean, to me, they are. I grew up watching nature. I watched the birds. Watched them fly. Wondered where they went to. Wondered if they would come back to me."
She watched his eyes. How deep they were ... how they were like the blue of a pond on an overcast day. Hiding so many things. Hinting at so much beneath them.
"So ... "
"Well, I mean, that's not ... too surprising," Akira continued. "You liking birds and nature and all. Considering where you come from." A pause. A silly, soft smile. "Ever seen a bird fall? Can birds fall? Like, say, have you ever seen a bluebird fall?"
Field giggle-squeaked. Chittering. What a question! He shrugged coyly. "Bluebirds don't fall. They're too sensible for that."
"They never hit a bad air current? Never take a bad step? Never make a mistake?"
"Oh, they do. All the time," Field insisted. "They're just good at hiding it. They're born into air. To whirl and swirl and put on a show. They bump and grind with gravity."
"Bump and grind," she echoed, "with gravity." THERE was an image.
The mouse nodded meekly.
"But, okay ... I mean, what else? What else do you like?"
"Lots of things."
She nodded ... indicating for him to elaborate.
The mouse let out a breath. "Well, I'm ... a Christian. Very devout. My faith ... means everything to me."
"Really?"
"That's not ... "
"No," she said. "No, it's not a problem. I mean, I guessed as much. From the way you talked the other day ... the times we've talked," she said, "you came off as spiritual." She nodded. "I just ... I'm not, you know?" She bit her lip. "I mean, I just never was."
Field fiddled with his straw.
Akira wondered if she should be sensing the scent of impossibility in the air. She was a predator. He was prey. She wasn't religious at all. He was. They were total opposites. How could this work? Why were they wanting each other like they were?
"Maybe you'll ... find faith," Field whispered. Chewing on the straw again. "It never hurts. It's ... " He trailed. Shrugged. "I wouldn't force it on you. I don't do that," he whispered, not meeting her eyes. Staring, instead, at the table-top. "But ... if you wanted me to, I would share it. And I would pray for you, regardless, cause ... I pray for those I care about."
"You pray?"
"Of course," was his whisper.
"I've never," she said quietly, "prayed."
"Oh ... "
"I mean ... "
"It's not so hard." He cleared his throat. Took a nervous sip of water (from one of the small glasses of water given to them before ordering). "I pray ... a few times a day. Before meals. Before bed. Sometimes, while I'm walking, while I'm ... in class. Whenever. Whenever I need to."
"Doesn't anybody ... "
"I pray in my head," he said. "Not out loud."
"Oh. Well, that would make sense ... "
Field nodded.
There was a pause.
The jaguar prodding, "What else? You're a bird-watcher. You're spiritual. What else are you into?"
"Um ... " A shrug. "I love auto racing ... I like sports, but I love auto racing. And football." A shy giggle. A shrug.
"You? Football?"
A nod. "Well, I just ... yeah. I don't know. I mean, I'm sure I could go on and on about why I like any given thing. Football being no exception. But I'll spare you that ... I just like it. I like racing, and I've been to the Indianapolis 500 ... and the Brickyard 400 ... I've been to races. Never been to a Colts game, but ... I watch every game on TV."
"Interesting ... " She stared at him. "What's your favorite movie?"
"Movie?"
"Yeah? Wanna know mine?"
He smiled. Nodded.
She hesitated. "No, you'll laugh ... "
"I will not."
"You will ... "
"I won't," he assured.
"My Fair Lady."
"Really?"
She nodded.
"I have that on video. That's a good one."
She grinned. "Yeah?"
He nodded. "Well ... my favorite movie is Lilo & Stitch. And then Hoosiers. They're tied, basically, but ... I love Stitch." His eyes darted, as if he were about to divulge a secret. "I've got, like, forty Stitches in my room. I get them from Disney Store. The plush ones. All of them are different."
"You collect Stitches?"
"Mm-hmm." A smile. "Stitches, toy cars, Star Trek ships ... I'm a Trek-mouse."
"I can see that," she admitted. Nodding. "Which one? Let me guess ... the original?"
"Enterprise. An unpopular choice, but ... no, Enterprise and Deep Space Nine. The ones that no one gives credit to. Maybe that's why I latch to them. But I love those ones ... I love them all. I like the hope and wonder and imagination ... of them. I mean, other sci-fi things can be dark. About bleak futures. About furs on the run. Star Trek's the only one that's ... that has hope, you know?"
"I've never really watched it ... "
"Oh, you've gotta ... " He giggled. "It's not what you think. I know there's a stereotype about it, but it's ... quite good. Quite addicting." Another giggle.
"My favorite show is 24."
"I love that one," Field exclaimed. "It scares me senseless, and it always pulls me in ... even when I know better." A smile. "I watch that one. It has such great stories. How it's constructed ... "
"You watch Lost?"
A nod.
"Oh, my gosh," she exclaimed. "You are the FIRST fur I've talked to ... that tells me they watch that."
"We should watch it together ... sometime. Some Wednesday."
"Yeah." She nodded eagerly.
"I mean, it's not like I watch a lot of television," Field continued. "Just those two shows ... and then some videos. And the sports. Like, I love British shows and stuff ... and I have those on video, so I cycle through them. Play them in the background, sometime, while I write. Or I play music. I mean, I have odd musical tastes. Very niche-like ... tastes."
"I don't watch much TV, either. You read?"
"Hate reading."
"Really?"
"I know ... I know, I'm a writer. I should be a book-mouse. But ... can't get through a book. Sometimes. Sometimes, I can, but ... it's rare."
"Huh ... "
"But, you know, I don't necessarily ... sometimes, I feel guilty about all the music and shows and movies and books, cause ... I'm digesting all this stuff that other furs create. Like I'm mooching off them. Off the talents of others. So, when I create my own things, it's ... I feel more a part of it. Like I'm giving back. But that's not WHY I write. Not at all. That's just ... one thing. I write cause ... "
"You told me. I think you told me," she said, remembering.
"Yeah ... "
They fell quiet.
She looked to him, telling him, "You're not so odd ... as you think yourself to be."
"But I am," he insisted.
"Field, you're not."
"I am," he whispered. "You don't really know me yet."
"No," she admitted. "But nor do you really know me. I might be odder." Pause. "Is odder a word?"
"Odder. Otter. Aught." The mouse shrugged. "I guess so. If it isn't, we'll say it is."
She grinned. Showing her teeth.
"I'm just an odd mouse, though. A fierce, odd ... Hoosier mouse. A fierce, odd mouse," he said, shrugging. "I love my home. I'm loathe to leave it. But I've got so many flaws," he said, trailing. "I've ... I've had some hard times. It's hard to keep confidence."
"You should have plenty of it," she whispered.
"Not the way it works," he whispered back.
She opened her muzzle to say something more, but their bread-sticks arrived.
Field nodded shyly to their server, who smiled at them and left ... Field eyed the bread-stick basket. "I worked in a restaurant," Field said, "full-time. For a year and a half ... after I failed out of school," he whispered, "the first time." He paused. "It was ... took its toll on me. I needed out," he whispered.
She eyed him. He looked a bit tired. Even now. Did he let himself sleep at night? Or was he up at all hours? Pacing, writing, thinking, worrying?
Field still stared at the food. Almost zoning out.
"You gonna take one, or what?" Akira asked. Tilting her head again. Smiling.
"Oh." Pause. "I don't know. Was gonna give you first pick."
"Doesn't matter, Field. They're all the same."
"Still ... "
She shrugged and took one. Took one of the cheese containers. He took one, too. And he took a cheese container for himself. The basket came with four bread-sticks. So, they each had two to eat. And each with their own cheese container.
Field dipped the end of his bread-stick in the cheese. Moved it around. Lifted it. And put it to his muzzle, biting. Chewing. Swallowing. And he giggled a bit. That shy, airy giggle of his. That "I feel silly" giggle. That "you make me feel safe" giggle. For Akira imagined he didn't giggle in front of many furs. If any. She imagined him to be the type of mouse, the type of prey ... who kept a tight wall around his heart. And why? What had happened to him? What were the things he feared? Who had broken his heart? Who would've done that to someone like him? He seemed so sweet, so shy ... who would dare toy with his heart?
They ate.
And where the mouse nibbled on his food, she took big tears and chews. She ate faster than he did.
The mouse realized that they hadn't once talked about school. About classes. About prospective jobs. About ... any of those things. And he found it refreshing. For he tired of being asked by every fur, upon meeting, "What are you studying?" Or, "Where are you going to school?" As if one was defined by his schooling. As if one was defined by his profession. And not by his personality, his actions, his ... self.
Field detested generic conversation. And felt empty upon being drawn into them (which he often was). He, looking to the jaguar, wished to never have a dull moment with her. Never a generic feeling. Never an average word. He envisioned that their love, should it last (and he hoped that it would; believed that it could) ... he envisioned that it would be different from any other. It wouldn't be like other love. It would be better. They would make it better. Was that big-headed of him to think? Or was it bold? Was it crazy? How much could one demand of love? Could one demand anything? Or did one just have to ... take what he got? Catch all the crumbs left from collision?
"I can see your mind," she told him, sipping of soda (which had been left behind with the bread-sticks). "I can see you, in your mind, running on your wheel."
"Is it that obvious?"
"It squeaks. Your wheel squeaks."
Field giggled, eyes darting. "Well ... I tend to get lost in thought, yeah. Often."
"Would you ever let yourself get lost in other things?" she posed. Voice quiet. Wondering.
"Depends on what they are," was his response. Equally delicate.
Their eyes met. Her eyes golden, narrower. Feline eyes. As if they were peering through him. Him, the prey. Her eyes were designed to find him. And his eyes were designed to freeze upon the sight of her.
Was it true that opposites attracted?
Like magnets ... opposite forces getting stuck on each other? Drawn together?
Their pizza arrived. Just as they'd finished on their bread-sticks.
As the jaguar picked up a slice in her paw, she paused, asked (wondering if it was appropriate to ask), "What did you pray about?"
He looked to her. Ears flushing.
"Or is ... or is that, like, you know ... wishes? And you can't say? Like when you make a wish when you blow out a candle or something, you can't say it, or it won't come true. Are prayers like that?"
"Not really."
She looked to him. Swallowed.
"I, uh, prayed of gratitude. For our meal. Our nourishment. Not just in terms of food, but ... of what we can provide," he whispered, "each other." His eyes darted from hers. "I prayed for courage."
She eyed him. His whiskers twitching. She could almost sense his heart pounding. "I didn't mean to ... embarrass you. You didn't have to tell me that," she said, letting out a breath. She sipped her drink (to fill the silence).
"It's okay," he said, and he smiled shyly. Looked to her. "Isn't it?"
She nodded. Smiled reassuringly. Yes ... it was, wasn't it?
And they ate in silence for a while. Chatting a bit, and ... when it came time to part, the mouse gave her a kiss (shy, on the cheek, and in the dark ... outside the restaurant). She blushed and exhaled upon that. And he took a step back, swallowing, clearing his throat, saying, stuttering, "I'll ... I'll see you on Monday? In class?"
"Or maybe sooner?" she replied. Was that tinge of desperation in her voice ... was that loneliness? The mouse knew that sound. It was evident in his own voice.
Field nodded. "Yeah ... we could hang out," he said, "tomorrow. Or Sunday. Or ... whenever. Just e-mail me later. Or in the morning. Or ... "
"Okay," she nodded. "I will."
The mouse smiled, and ... sighed as he watched her go.
And she sighed as she went. Wistful for the day when their sighs would mingle, would entwine. When their sighs would be a result of each other's touch. Of everlasting love. But, for now, she would have to settle for this "newborn love" sigh. This "parting just when I'm wanting not to leave" sigh ...
Yearning had never dazzled so.