Umbrella
Field, on his bare, furry belly in bed, read a book of Madeline and her friends in two straight lines. In Paris. And was reminded of melodies and trains (and how, often, the two went together).
Outside, the night was dark with mystery. And it was raining. Like, maybe ... how crying was. The rain was falling ... as if the world was sorry and glad (together). The night here, now, but day (deep) asleep. Oh, the night and day were, indeed, sorry and glad (together). And the mouse could feel it. That's why it was raining.
Cause time was crying.
Which was why the mouse was reading (or trying to; reading was such a chore). Which was why he was in bed.
Why he'd gotten off the squeaky mouse-wheel of thought (that was his in his head) ... and was lying on his bed. Why he was closing his eyes ...
... seeing himself in the frame of the front door. Earlier in the day. Around three PM. Leaning, learning (what, he didn't know, but ... it was always something) in the frame of that door. It was a threshold that separated "here" from "there." Calling behind him, beside him, "Give me my umbrella, darling. Please?" The please added with an extra wisp in his already airy voice. Like the cherry on top.
"You're going out?" Adelaide came into view. "Now?"
He would nod quietly. Outside, the grass was soggy, and the trees were naked. Bare. It was January. January and raining. A record high of 65 degrees.
How could one not go out there ... in record-setting air? How could one not wish to breathe of record-setting air?
"But it's raining," said the bat, breaking the revelry. Spreading her wings ... to indicate such things.
"It's a warm rain," would be his reply. "I need to feel it." There was no reason, no particular reason why. He was going to walk in the rain with his umbrella. And with her. Said his look. Oh, he wasn't going into that rain without her. But he WAS going into that rain, so ... reason dictated that ... she was, too. As he caught her eyes. More powerful than those heavy skies. "Are you coming?" His voice was full of shy hope. Hiding his plea of "don't reject me. Please, don't reject me."
She giggled quietly (almost as not to be heard), looking to the periwinkle-blue cushions of the couch, and then back to him. Waggling her thin, pointed bat ears ... as if they were antennae trying to figure him out. After all this time. All these months together. Still trying to figure him out. And she would nod ...
... would tell him, "Yeah, I'll go."
"The umbrella," he would remind.
"Is right here," she said. But it was broken. It had bent during a heavy wind. The wires had snapped. And they hadn't gotten a new one. "Well, it's ... mostly here," she said, opening it to test it out.
"Darling," said Field, with quiet alarm.
She looked to him.
"You opened the umbrella in the house?"
"Yeah?"
"No, you don't ... " He stepped away from the lazy door-frame. "No ... darling, no," was all he said, frowning. "You're not supposed to do that, right?"
She chuckled. "You're not the superstitious type, Field." And she purposely ... opened it again. "Don't know why you'd care ... "
He bit back a smile. "You're telling the rain it's okay to come inside. You're inviting the rain," he said.
"Well, maybe ... that's for the best, yeah? I mean, why go out and meet the rain ... when it can come meet us? I mean, we'll be the first furs to have the rain as a dinner guest. Think of the stories it could tell."
"Yes, but he'll get the floor wet. He'll ruin the wallpaper. He'll plague us with damp," was Field's stubborn reply. One of forced maturity. As he began to swipe at the umbrella. Were not umbrellas born of poetry? The color and the shape of them? And what they did for you? Such shields ...
Adelaide, hiding her giggles, backed around the couch ... holding the open umbrella just out of his reach. She could be such a cheeky thing ... she that had wings.
Field, squinty-eyed, nose and whiskers twitching, ears honing, swiveling ... stalked her and the umbrella. Round and round the couch. His own thin tail trailing behind him. Like a live wire.
"You really are too much, gataki ... "
He made a face. "I'm not a kitten."
"You're MY kitten," she teased. With a warm, winning smile.
He bit his own smile back. "I'm a mouse."
"Yeah?"
"I'm ALL mouse," was his response. Almost sounding like a challenge.
"Really?" she said, egging him on. "Gataki, gataki ... kitten," she whispered. "You're my kitten."
He giggled, biting his lips, still pursuing her. Really rather fond of the nickname. It was unique. It was ... but, all the same, he was a mouse, and ... he needed that umbrella, and she, wielding it, was so beautiful. So ... laughing, so happy. Revolving. He was revolving around her in this room. She had his heart in her orbit.
Revolve, revolve ... revolve ... went the mouse, circling around her ... as she teased him with the open umbrella, feigning attempts to ward him off with it. As if holding a disfigured sword. Or the end of a humongous navy-blue flower.
Field had once been told, "You young ones don't believe in nothing but freedom for yourselves. Where are you getting ahead to?"
And, Adelaide, giggling and ear-waggling, holding the umbrella (and, all the while, the front door still open and the sound of rain being so gentle ... reaching them with a patter-pat-pat) ... Adelaide, almost dancing, was ... love. His love.
And the mouse believed in love. And through love, there was hope, and through hope, redemption ... he, by chasing her, by chasing this, was finding new hope in everything. Was strengthening his age-old faith.
This was more than nothing. This was so much more than nothing. This was so much more than ...
... lunging!
A giggle-shriek.
Met in tandem with a giggle-squeak, as the mouse swiped the umbrella with one paw, using the other paw (and arm) to wrap round her waist, to pull her close and snug. Pull her tight. Holding her lower back while meeting her in a head-tilted, whisker-wilting kiss ... of such heat, such surprise, such force ...
... as to throw the rain back to Sunday.
Seemingly, anyway. Field could imagine such a thing ... love changing the weather. Changing the world.
It had done so before. Would do it again.
Maybe with them.
And, Field, the blessed fool ... had such romantic notions in his head. Oh, his waltzing days weren't over, and ...
... he opened his eyes. Madeline in two straight lines ... why didn't they ride bikes to the cathedral? Past those cemeteries? Ride their bikes, weaving ... in and out, around ... bikes would be better. Though, he supposed, nowadays ... they would just as well use mopeds. Isn't that what they used on those tiny, European streets?
He tossed the book aside. To the floor. Reading it (for tonight) no more. Remembering how ...
... he'd been home one winter. It was last winter.
They had asked him, "What are you doing now?"
He had replied, shyly, holding his tail, nibbling at some crackers while staring at the Christmas tree, replied, "Well, I ... have hope for my writing. For my pictures."
And, someone (he didn't know who), had said, "You can't do that, you silly thing."
And Field's heart had sunk. For ... though God had given him a brave heart (so they insisted), He'd given the mouse a mind of butterflies. And all they did was flap and fly. Never in the same direction, but in a dozen ways at once, and they only lived twelve days, it seemed. Never long enough. He didn't need butterflies. He needed small planes. Needed enough speed to break through his walls and not look back ... to fly away. Through every cloudy, teary sky. To ...
... love, maybe. To her, maybe. Adelaide wasn't with him. She was with her own family. The mouse hadn't told his family about her. They would find something wrong with her. Would be suspicious of him. He wouldn't have it. Not anymore. Ever. Not with her.
He loved her.
She was an anchor in his world.
But the mouse, his mind, his soul ... through his writing, through every act of creation he undertook, he was beginning worlds. New worlds. His own worlds. He was (always) beginning worlds, and he feared ... she wouldn't have the patience to chase him from one to another. To chase his manic, mousey mind ...
... to chase him down, wrestle him to the ground. To force-feed him his rest.
If she could do that, he ...
... wondered, back in the bedroom, in the present, "Where was color this hour? Where was music this hour?" His mind pondered those things. "Surely, they must be going on somewhere."
But not here.
There was only the rain. Only the quiet. Only God peering down into the room. And only ...
... him, and only ... her.
As she slipped into view. Walking a sensual, slinky walk. As befitting a pink-furred bat grounded by the weather. All flights cancelled. Befitting a rainy night.
Field eyed her.
She offered a soft smile. "You okay?" was her whisper.
He nodded. "I was just ... trying to read."
"Getting anywhere?"
"Mm," he went, smiling. "Not really. I ... it's not any fun to read things, you know, when I could just ... write my own stories," he confessed.
"Maybe you're just not reading the right things."
"Maybe," was his reply.
She paused, sitting beside him ... on the bed. Him laying down. "I'm sorry I ... teased you with that umbrella thing. I ... we never got to take our walk."
He breathed in through the nose. Feeling, hearing, almost seeing ... some piano playing. The darker, deeper keys. Slow, slow, slow ...
" ... you know," she said, voice at a whisper, "that I love you, right? You know how much I love you ... "
And the mouse's watery eyes, and his non-reply ... indicated that he, yes, he ... knew. Oh, he knew. And how he loved her back. How ... and he nodded quietly, sniffling a bit. Wanting for her to be proud of him. Wanting for her to ... think everything good of him. Wanting to be everything right for her. Wondering ... how she could.
But, earlier, as they'd danced around with their umbrella, he'd ... going around the room ... he'd seen them in the mirror. Reflected. Seen their happy faces. And had known, in that instant, that his insecurities, his ... little fears ... they were nothing. They wilted in her presence here. And it just ... was.
It just was.
It was a ticket-half ... found. Field had one half ... she had the other. Together, they made something that was ... worth the price of admission. Was worth the trip. Something that couldn't be torn apart again. They made something found.
"Will it ever stop raining?" she whispered into his dishy, sensitive ear.
"I think we may all ... wash away," was his wispy reply. On his side. Now with her (beside him, nestled beside him).
"I thought God said he wouldn't do that again ... that's the covenant of the rainbow, right ... we won't wash away," she assured him. And so sure did she sound.
"Yeah, but ... we may get swept downstream. It's still gonna rain ... "
"We can both swim, so ... we're good," was her counter. Countering everything. Battling his doubts, his fears ... instilling hope in him. Hope, brightness ... for all the future years.
"Think," Field said, straining for the book he'd earlier tossed to the floor, "I can shut off the light with Madeline and her friends in two straight lines?"
"You can't flick off the light switch by throwing a book at it," she said.
"Yeah?"
"You can't. No way," was her whisper.
He giggled airily. Warm and snuggled. And he tried it. And missed.
"Told you," she said.
"I had to try."
"Well, we can ... keep going."
"With the lights on?" he asked.
"Yeah," was her light, light whisper. Brighter than the lightbulb's light ... was the sound of her voice.
The mouse, posture becoming submissive, said, "Well, after ... when we fall asleep. Can ... I mean, can we sleep in light?"
"Yes. It'll make our dreams glow."
The mouse, her weight atop of his, closed his eyes. Surrendering to her. And to the rainy hush. And to the softness of her touch.
As they slipped free of any remaining attire. As they sparked the embers of their fire. Their desire.
Her muzzle met his. She, above him, pressed upon him ... a kiss. A tilted kiss. And the mouse tried to return it. Felt it wasn't good enough. Tried again.
She grinned a toothy grin at his kisses. Which met her cheeks. Which met her neck.
And one of his foot-paws ran up and down her lower leg. To her own foot-paw. Bumping slightly.
Until, soon, her fangs were raking the mouse's own neck. Until she licked and lapped at the fur on his neck. Prepping him for her bite.
Field's pulse picking up pace. Heart quickening. Eyes closing, and breath baited ... in anticipation. In knowing what was coming. In knowing what she did to him. Could do for him. And he ... for her. Knowing how they would compliment each other as they mated. How they would be such a tandem.
Her tongue took its final lick.
Field breathed deeply, furry chest rising ... holding that breath. And deflating as the air was released.
And Adelaide sank her fangs into his neck. Painless, the bite. And the mouse didn't know how. Didn't know how this worked. Was this science, this joining? And, if so, how could it not hurt? He didn't know ... and thought nothing of it ...
... just that, biting into him, her fangs dripped of her mating milk. Which sizzled electrically into the mouse's blood. Allowing their thoughts to join. Allowing them to share in each other's sensations.
Joining them.
And, she, lying atop of him, breathed of him from up-close. Breathed of his fur. Of his submissiveness. Of his thoughts and feelings.
She wriggled, wings spread and enveloping him ... like a blanket. Winged arms open, laid out over the sheets, and then coming back together. To hold to his sides. So her paws could hold to the mouse's slender sides. Could hold to him as she wriggled her middle, wriggled her hips, trying to back herself onto him ...
... onto his mouse-hood, which was pulsing stiffly. But in need of slick friction.
Adelaide, feeling it would be difficult to do this lying down (as if often was), pulled Field to a sit. The both of them ... they struggled to a sit. In the middle of the bed, they sat. And, now, sitting, she was able to keep her fangs in his neck. Keep his eyes hooded. Keep them in pleasured anticipation ... while she wriggled some more.
Until she sat snugly in his lap. Opening for him. Swallowing him in ...
The mouse squeaked slightly. Shyly.
She completely enveloped him. And kept it that way ... until she rose an inch or two, and settled back down. Slow, slight rising ... slow, slight falling. At a sit.
The mouse's paws and arms wrapped around her soft, furry back ... almost in desperation. Clinging.
As she continued to rise and fall by inches. Such soft, teasing stimulation. The mouse unable, from this position, to piston back ... forced to submit to her control. And not minding it. Preferring it.
And as the soft, sensual motions continued, and as they physically joined, and as their thoughts merged and flowed, and as he traced his fingers along her wings ... as they thought of such romantic things ...
... he saw all the color, heard all the music of this hour. They were going on ... in this room. In them. They'd never left.
Little pants and huffs. Little squeaky breaths.
She came first, and she shivered and squeaked ... and withdrew her teeth from his neck (so she could arch her head back, eyes closed, and chitter to the ceiling) ...
And as her spasms and her liquid assaulted him with warmth, the mouse ...
... came, too. Moaning lightly, squeaking slightly ... as he sowed into her. As he buried his nose to her neck-fur. Breathing, breathing ...
... meeting each other's eyes. Still in the light of the bedroom. Still hearing the rain outside. Still. In this hush.
She put her forehead to his, breasts rising, falling, whispering, "I think we can ... do better." She smiled teasingly.
The mouse swallowed. "Yeah?"
She nodded, breathing deeply.
The mouse giggled happily ... and, for the first time in a while, not feeling guilty about being happy. And saying, "I guess we should spend all our energy. Weren't we saving it for such a rainy day?"
"Rainy night," she corrected, with a whisper to his ear. Which she was already nibbling.
And they were already going at it ... again.
Their love an umbrella. Keeping them dry (from the rain, at least).