| Andrew Kaye is a writer, poet, and cartoonist living in Northern Virginia. When he's not selfishly working on his own material, he's editing the literary humor magazine Defenestration (www.defenestrationmag.net). Feel free to take a peek at what he’s currently up to via his LiveJournal (andrewkaye.livejournal.com). |
 |
| The Cat Will Play Deirdre saw the telltale signs of mice in her kitchen: the nibbled corner of the box of baking soda, the powdery white pawprints on the inside of the pantry, the neat pile of droppings in the corner. She stiffened, scanned the room. Her eyes fell upon the dark space between the cupboard and the refrigerator. It was normally empty save the wispy gray cobweb threads and the hardened puddle of mystery fluid, the space too awkward to clean and too low-lying to notice. But she noticed the mouse. Its whiskers twitched as it clutched a bright yellow square of cereal. Deirdre noticed, but pretended not to. She went about the kitchen. Doors and drawers, opened, then closed, the contents shifting, metal on metal like a box of shaken nails. The mouse was alert but unfazed, whiskers still twitching, the cereal close but uneaten. A pot was filled two-thirds of the way up, gently set on the glowing coil. The oven fan was flicked on; hairdryer sounds curled into every corner. Deirdre eased her backside onto the kitchen counter. Her shorts were too short, and she sucked in an alarmed breath as bare flesh met cold Silestone. "I can see you there," she told the mouse. Its whiskers stalled, then twitched anew. "I finished that cereal last week, or have you been stockpiling? You're a very naughty mouse." The mouse blinked. A smile crawled up one side of Deirdre's face. Her fingers danced to the nearest drawer, slipping it open as noiselessly as possible, all the while watching, all the while smiling. She drew out a fist-sized object and hurled. The egg timer bounced off the linoleum with a muted ring, a few inches from the wispy gray cobweb threads and the hardened puddle of mystery fluid. And the mouse. It scurried into the shadows, taking its meal with him. Deirdre dropped from the counter. Her bare feet made delicate padding sounds on the smooth linoleum. She didn't bother picking up the timer, and pushed it aside with her toe. The bell echoed dully as it scraped across the floor. The water had come to a boil, the kitchen hotter. Deirdre unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. Steam buffeted her skin, condensation dappling her neck and collarbones with tiny, lukewarm droplets. Her ears were sharp. She could hear the muted scrabbling of the mouse making his way through the spaces in the wall. She went to the pantry. The mouse was there on the second shelf, brazenly. His mouth and whiskers were smeared with yellow crumbs. "I can't have mice in my kitchen, running around freely" she said, bending over to stare at the mouse eye to eye. "What's more, you seem to have eaten your dinner, and it's time to have mine." Deidre loomed, darted. One quick sweep of the hand and she had him. She held him by the tail, pale flesh pinched between thumb and forefinger. He wriggled, squirmed, flailed his tiny limbs. She carried her prize to the stovetop, dangled it above the bubbling pot. She was calm, utterly dispassionate. "You were fun while you lasted," she purred, closing her fingers around the unfortunate creature. She squeezed, twisted, broke its tiny neck. Her eyes waxed like the moon as she dropped the mouse into the water. |
| Andrew Kaye |
 |