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Phillip cracks his knuckles when he wants to prove that he is strong.  

Phillip cracks his knuckles when he first sees Colette.  

Colette is a mouse living on his balcony.  She is made of both brown and grey fur mixed with a pink nose.  Phillip hasn’t seen a mouse since he moved to the city six years ago but there she is.  Colette.  On his balcony overlooking the L tracks and the shiny glassed windows of River North.  The River, deeply green and littered, is far below them and it does not move.  Colette is watching the water sludge from her perch in the corner near the outdoor chairs that bounce and Phillip is standing behind the glass door, watching her.  He lives on the thirty-seventh floor so he can’t help but wonder how she has made it all that way.  Phillip can’t help but wonder if maybe she has always lived there.  If maybe she had taken up residence in Phillip’s apartment long before it had been Phillip’s apartment.  Back to a time when it had been Mark’s apartment or Susan’s apartment.  Phillip can’t help but wonder.  

Phillip does not like butter but he feels like Colette would.  He also is not sure when he began to call her Colette but the name has stuck and he is rifling through his fridge for butter.  He is thinking of his neighbors.  Of the nice young Indian couple on the other side of the hall with the little girl who is named something he has never been able to pronounce and he is wondering if they would have a stick of butter.  He would never cook with such an indulgent condiment, nor would he have a neighbor thinking he would be in need of lending.  He is always stocked with a fresh can of Pam, or whatever cooking supplies could or would be necessary.  Besides, he does not believe people knock on each other’s doors in the city anyway.  

Pushing past a half empty box of Lacroix, Phillip selects edamame hummus from the fridge.  The chipotle flavor might have too much of an edge for Colette.  After scooping some on a plate, he walks across his wood floor, rolling from heel to toe, heel to toe, as taught in marching band.  His soles against the wood make a light patting noise like soft kisses until he reaches the balcony door and slides it open.  The city erupts with wind and bleating horns on his face.  He always forgets how loud the world is while inside his white, silent apartment.  

Colette has her back to Phillip and she is contemplating the drop.  The very long drop to the very dismal gray pavement.  Her beady black eyes flicking with the small red, navy, white, yellow, and tan dots crawling below on the bridge, scooting over the bridge, gliding on the street intersecting with the bridge.  So many small crawling dots, starting and stopping.   Colette hears the scrape of ceramic plate on concrete ground behind her.  She startles and shifts quickly, facing the noise but scurrying away from the noise, closer to the railing.  There is a gift — green hummus on white plate.  However, Collette’s eyes fall on Phillip’s tan, strong, man hand, elegantly lifting from Colette-height to half Phillip-height.   His body then leans against the doorframe.  Arms cross over his crisp white oxford.  He’s just home from work and so the shirt is wrinkled and lightly moist in the armpit, lower back and neck region.  The shirt crinkles as it moves.  

Phillip watches Colette’s dainty head nod towards the plate and speculate at the grainy-textured blob.  The nose pokes and sniffs, hovering near, twitching this way and that but never diving in.  Phillip thinks of a mechanism shorting — sputtering.  Suddenly, Colette is lifting her head to Phillip and Phillip is taken aback.  Her eyes are wide and the deepest, blackest ebony he has ever seen.  So much so that he cannot imagine how one could see through so much darkness.  Even if one is a mouse.

Colette’s stomach is growling and her mouse brain is too small to remember to distrust.  She dives into the hummus.  Some particles stick to her nose, when Phillip’s phone rings.  

He is so unused to the jingle of a friendly voice that he always assumes the sound is an alarm and he is late and he must shut the dumb thing off.  But it is 7 PM and the sun is slightly setting.  There is nowhere to be and so the sound must be a phone call.  A human calling on the phone!  He instinctively jumps toward it – inside, on the kitchen counter.  The balcony door left wide open.  Grabbing at the phone, he sees the words ‘Brother’.  He freezes, shoulders drooped.  He lets it ring.  

His brother is always overcompensating for their parents’ subtle disapproval of Phillip’s mediocrity.  Phillip knows his brother will ask him to meet for lunch tomorrow because they both work in buildings on the same street but they rarely run into each other if not planned because the city is so dense.  And yet Colette found her way to Phillip tonight, by chance, like earlier today, by chance, Phillip ran into Chris. 

It had been four months since Chris had moved out for a higher apartment and a more expensive boyfriend, and Phillip was fine.  Fine, he told himself, acknowledging the anniversary.  He marched on with the business-slave suit-coats on their way to lunch when he caught a distant glimmer.

Chris.  No.  No.  No.  No no no no.  Yes.  Fuck.  Yes yes yes… fuck. Chris.  

On the phone standing on a corner a block ahead.  Glowing in a gray t-shirt and expensive jeans because he is an in-demand architect and so he dresses as he pleases.  As he spoke, Chris kicked absent-mindedly at the side of the brick building he assisted in creating, one hand to his ear, the other in his pocket.  He glanced upwards, past windows and stories and smiled at the sky.  Beamed at the sun who returned the courtesy, illuminating his fair hair.  He had obviously not shaved that morning, shadowing his face in a rugged sensual and sexy sleepy way.  

Phillip remembered then how his eyelids would briefly stick before they opened from sleep and how his lashes would flutter while he adjusted to morning light.  Cucumber scent kissed at the nostrils as Chris’ lips left the bridge of Phillip’s nose.  The memory provoked shudders.  On the conveyor belt street, the looming encounter encroached.  Legs sliding forward to the man whose stench had only just been washed from his sheets.  The man who consistently lost socks to the monster of the mattress.  The night before Phillip had found a grey Nike ankle cut below his bed.  Phillip only wore no-show.  He had placed the sock back under the bed and walked away and now he knows the appearance to have been an omen, flashing forward to now.  

Fingers jittered.  Was he excited?  Wasn’t this what he had been wanting?  All those nights, stuffing face into pillow, smelling him, conjuring his glowing image in an attempt to dull ferocious tears and running snot.  White tile bounced his screams in all directions until he was forced to let it off the balcony, thrashing, exhuming ancient ruins of pain.  Eventually, Phillip would collapse on the floor, while someone next door thought some team had lost some important game.  

In the frozen second before passing his Chris,  Phillip’s cheeks habitually warmed.  A smile pinched at the sides as he watched his man speak into a telephone, unaware of the surprise in store.  

Chris brought his chin down, the back of his phone gleaming in the sun, and whispered to his chest as if the nape of a lover.  

Phillip halted.  Momentum swooped from him.  He had been in the process of clearing his throat and removing his hands from their rigid and pumping position. Before the recognition of the call, Phillip had thought about touching Chris’s arm near the bicep.  One tap could bring him to him.  But now Phillip snapped his eye line from Chris to the streetlight before him.  The dark colors marching  — the suits and jackets and heels and neon sneakers because heels are in hand — everyone swarming.  Move passed his back, move on from his rippling shoulder blades.  

Phillip could remember the cut of every muscle and how each one collaborated with the others in a system of teams.  Chris’ body vivid, alive, and moving. 

Phillip ran into Chris today although he never runs into his brother, who is calling him and who always calls him and who he does not want to call him, please do stop calling him.   Phillip ran into Chris today who never smiled when on the phone with Phillip. 

Now Phillip entertains vermin on Friday nights.  

Dinner is bland because that is all Phillip deserves. An arugula and couscous and sun-dried tomato concoction.  Something he has made from the scraps of things he has lying in his half empty fridge.  Phillip sits on a high stool at his granite island and he is watching Colette, still nibbling outside.  Some time has passed so there could not be any food left, but alas she nibbles.  Phillip thinks about pouring himself some wine because he has seen people on TV dining alone and pouring themselves some wine.  He has some Pinot Noir on the counter that was opened two days ago. He does not consider himself particularly classy and although he now often sticks up his nose, there was a time in college when he very much enjoyed bagged wine and very much enjoyed the staggering of his feet underneath his thin legs as he walked into bars with flashing lights and a reverberating bass, Phillip subtly strutting and always knowing that they were watching.  Men were watching.  Watching him as he walked.  His lips and teeth stained red from bagged wine.   

Phillip has not overindulged since.  Not even slightly.  Though he has been tempted to since Chris moved out.  

Phillip has never had his heart broken before.  

Wow, he thinks, pausing and cradling the wine to his chest.  

He thought he had, but whilst skimming through recollections, as one does while opening an already opened bottle of wine, he realizes he never liked Tim very much at all.  He had been a nice body and a nice job, nothing more.  And Roger had adored Phillip too much.  He must have been compensating for some wrong that occurred in his youth.  And then Jack.  Jack was doomed since first glance on a friend’s balcony sharing a cigarette.  But Chris.  He had been companionship and respect and fierce, gripping, crazy, crazy love.  

True love has always been included on the list of indulgences Phillip chooses to avoid and so he is shocked by his own transgression.  Now that he has inadvertently revoked his habit of temperance, so to say, he feels as if he must continue on this new path. Welcome the extravagance.  Drink more.  Eat more.  Fuck more.  Something.  But instead Phillip is eating a perfectly portioned meal and pouring out 8 ounces of Pinot Noir, and he is watching a mouse on the balcony.  The mouse no longer nibbles but has returned to her perch in the corner, watching below. 

Colette comes from an upper class family, having lived on balconies for generations, but she recently met a hefty bodied street rat and has fallen very much in love.  Her parents forbade her from seeing Carl, a declaration for which Colette could not abide.  But yesterday, after having snuck out with all her worldly possessions — two grains of farro, one nibble of peanut butter, and mascara — Colette saw Carl in the subway and he was eating a baby rat and that is a disgusting image Colette cannot shake.  So she is focusing on the sliding dots chasing one another, rolling and rolling, all tiny rolling dots, though it is dark now and their swift movements disintegrate into golden glows. 

Collette  knows they are not dots but cars.  

She knows that they are so much larger than her, but look so much smaller when she is up on the balcony and so far away.  Colette turns back towards the apartment windows and wonders how the human is fairing because she senses he is broken like her.  He is inside still wearing a tie, which most humans immediately remove once through the door, and there is no lady greeting him and kissing him and he is not playing with his metal rectangle and he is not even watching Netflix.  He is pouring wine now and Colette would love some wine and she thinks he might give it to her since he is a human with class who gives mice edamame hummus as opposed to milk or butter.  Both so terribly fattening.  She inches towards the glass door.

With a forkful of sun-dried tomatoes to his lips, Phillip debates allowing Collette inside.  As he engulfs the food in his mouth, he remembers being small, telling his mom that sun-dried tomatoes couldn’t be tomatoes because they look like raisins, no, no they look like an old crinkly man.  Mom had laughed and her eyes had twinkled at him like they always did at her baby.  But now her baby son is her disappointing son and so her eyes still twinkle but only momentarily before a dash of pity creeps in the corners, dulling the afterglow.

Phillip is letting Colette in.  

He has nudged her with a rolled up copy of The New Yorker onto the white dessert plate, now stained green with hummus, and he is bringing her inside and he is holding the plate an arm’s length away from his chest which is thumping with his heart inside and Colette’s eyes are marbles and they are rolling, darting and deciphering each salt shaker and potted plant and empty paper towel roll and picture frame turned down.  Phillip is wincing a little and thinking how dumb he is being, bringing a street mouse indoors, but still he places Colette on the counter.  Facing his dishes – his food half eaten, his wine half drank.  All arranged with fork and unnecessary knife on a green place mat.  

Colette stares at the deep, red wine and she imagines how slowly the liquid would ripple since it is thick. 

Do you like wine? 

Phillip asks by raising his eyebrows.

Very much so.

Colette says with her black eyes deep and not moving at all. 

Phillip picks up the no stem wine glass, exquisite and expensive, and drops a bead of wine on Colette’s plate.  She daintily steps toward the corner where it pools and she laps it up. 

I am having wine with a mouse. 

Phillip says by sitting down and accompanying her sip with his own.

May I have more? 

Phillip reaches for the bottle and pours them both some more. 

The two are drinking in comfortable silence.  The sun is almost fully set and Phillip’s silverware tinkles on his plate as he scoops up more couscous and Colette is lapping up the red wine, which has spread across the white plate so it is also touching her feet and it is also under her belly.  As she drinks the wine her tongue smacks a bit on the ceramic and she is remembering her parents.  She is dreading her return to them because then they will have been right.  They will have known best.  And that kills her and maybe that is why she is still so young. 

Phillip is finishing the bottle now and he can hear the Indian family coming home in the hall.  The little girl is laughing and the keys are jangling as Phillip brings the glass to his mouth and this is his favorite glass because the glass is thin and feels soft between his lips like he is rich and he is young and he is desirable.  The little girl in the hall is saying something to Daddy just as their door slams and Phillip blinks harshly.  Colette has watched the pain etched within the crevices of Phillip’s face during the whole incident.  He reads her understanding over the glass that is pressed to his lips and he is not yet drinking.  Colette’s black holes nudge him forward.  He drinks and it is warm and luxurious.

I believe you need someone to love.  

She says, still not moving, frozen and stuffed, eyes fixed and protruding, reaching, and he laughs and shakes his head and tells her she is insane and does not know what she is talking about and then he remembers she is a mouse.  He is talking to a mouse.  And so he thinks that she may be right.  The mouse?  No.  He is right.  The thought is right.  

However, it is 10 PM and he will not find love tonight.  

Phillip is turning in.  He is in his bedroom and he is stripping down to undershirt and gray boxer briefs with a black elastic band.  Colette is still on the counter on the plate and she is not moving.  She is watching the granules in the air dance around her and blur together and swirl with her flicking eyes, the intake of alcohol making it difficult to distinguish borders and lines.  Until she is lifted and moving.  Flying through space, past a bookcase and into a bedroom where there is an open closet on the left side and then another door and it is opened by a hand.  Inside she sees white tile and a mirror and in the reflective glass there is a small mouse on a small plate in the palm of a large hand attached to the human.  As the human sets her into the bathtub, Colette realizes the small mouse had been her.  Colette scuttles towards the drain and as the human closes the door she remembers the image of the mouse had been attractive and so Colette is attractive and this pleases her.  

Phillip is trying to sleep now and he has allowed Colette the bathroom although he is frightened he will forget she is locked in the bathroom and he will open the door in the night and she will move and he will jump.  He is still afraid of small furry things carrying disease, but he is more afraid to open the balcony and let her go and he is even more afraid to fall asleep because Chris will welcome him with open arms on the other side and Phillip will awake feeling swaddled, warm and content until sleep melts away and he sees he is in bed holding himself.  

Colette is sitting in the bathtub and there is a rubber duck sitting on the rim of the tub and he is tall and yellow and shiny and smooth and Colette is blushing looking at him and she wonders if his vacant blue eyes will ever look down to her, near the drain, and she wonders if his eyes will blink and move and dance when he sees her, and if they will fall in love.  She hopes they will fall in love.  But right now Colette’s paws are wet from the thin coating of left over water from some shower at some point and she is staring up at the rubber duck and he is glowing.  

Colette swivels her bottom when she is lonely and wanting. 

Colette swivels her bottom – waiting and waiting and hoping that he will look down.