zeke has to drive over to Sullivan because the pet shop in Herrington doesn't have any white mice, just some wan-looking goldfish floating through the murky water with unenthusiatic wiggles. all the water in herrington is murky, and in summer it give the humid air a smeared, blurry density that hurts his eyes to drive through.
this time he drives with the window open, forearm resting on the brilliant shine of the chrome trim, cigarette shrinking in the hot wind. the air clears five miles out of town, the horizon on all sides becomes crisp, golden wheat fields and blue blue sky, liquid black highway.
the pet store in Sullivan is bigger, cool and almost damp inside with painted concrete floor and the musty smell of dog food. the mice dart around a large, thick-glassed enclosure, sharp movements amidst yellow straw, and zeke leans over with hands in his pockets to peer into it at ground-level.
the shoebox scuttles and scratches in the passenger seat on the way home, and zeke glances at it every so often on the long, straight stretches of road, tricked by suprise into smirking at the tiny pink nose that appears at the pencil-punched holes in the lid every so often.
when he gets into his garage he tips the box into the old bird cage he's found for the occassion, and watches as the small ball of white fur with whiskers and ruby eyes picks itself up and tiptoes around the base of the cage, head bobbing as it sniffs its way around.
zeke grins despite himself. "hey, buddy," he says at length, his voice quiet but solid in the empty silence of the crowded garage. "what's your name, huh?" he pokes a finger through the thin bars of the cage, wiggles it.
the mouse creeps closer, sniffs, takes a bite. "ahh, jesus, you fucking cunt!" zeke yells, whipping his hand back and shaking it violently. "bastard," he says at length with an air of almost-disbelief, moving back to the cage and peering in again. he laughs. "you little shit."
no subject
this time he drives with the window open, forearm resting on the brilliant shine of the chrome trim, cigarette shrinking in the hot wind. the air clears five miles out of town, the horizon on all sides becomes crisp, golden wheat fields and blue blue sky, liquid black highway.
the pet store in Sullivan is bigger, cool and almost damp inside with painted concrete floor and the musty smell of dog food. the mice dart around a large, thick-glassed enclosure, sharp movements amidst yellow straw, and zeke leans over with hands in his pockets to peer into it at ground-level.
the shoebox scuttles and scratches in the passenger seat on the way home, and zeke glances at it every so often on the long, straight stretches of road, tricked by suprise into smirking at the tiny pink nose that appears at the pencil-punched holes in the lid every so often.
when he gets into his garage he tips the box into the old bird cage he's found for the occassion, and watches as the small ball of white fur with whiskers and ruby eyes picks itself up and tiptoes around the base of the cage, head bobbing as it sniffs its way around.
zeke grins despite himself. "hey, buddy," he says at length, his voice quiet but solid in the empty silence of the crowded garage. "what's your name, huh?" he pokes a finger through the thin bars of the cage, wiggles it.
the mouse creeps closer, sniffs, takes a bite. "ahh, jesus, you fucking cunt!" zeke yells, whipping his hand back and shaking it violently. "bastard," he says at length with an air of almost-disbelief, moving back to the cage and peering in again. he laughs. "you little shit."