The mouse stared at the wall. Trying to see God in the shadows. Trying to see ...

"Field?"

"Yeah?" He blinked and exhaled. Bathed in the pale-blue glow of the television screen.

"You still there?"

"I don't like telephones. I have a ... "

" ... phobia of phones?" she finished for him. She knew. He had only told her, like, twenty times. The mouse making a habit of repeating things like that. Used to being ignored, afraid of ... being ignored. So, he repeated himself ...

"Yes," he said.

Quiet. And, then, on her part, "Well ... you're the one who called me." Which had surprised her. She had known him to simply drive over to her ... rather than pick up a phone. Between his fear of driving and his fear of phones, he ... would rather drive.

"I had a lot to say." He always did.

"And?"

"And it ... went away," Field said quietly. Regrettably. "It ... my words went out."

"Where did they go?" she asked. A curiosity inherent in her voice. Wanting to know ... to help him.

"I think they went for ice cream. Or ... wherever they went, they're wasting their time. They need to come back to me."

A slight giggle. "They always do, don't they?"

"Yes, but ... " A smile ... tugging at the phone cord with his paw. Tugging at the cord that was trailing to the wall. The mouse didn't own a cell phone. Cause ... well, he hated phones. " ... they leave me in the lurch. They gotta learn to stop doing that."

"Gonna lock them in your mind? Throw away the key?"

"Something like that," Field whispered airily. Smiling still, and ... breathing. And the smile fading away. Replaced by a neutrality. "But I have ... a dozen copies of the key to my mind. I'm always needing them." A breath. "But ... anyway," said the mouse, clearing his throat, "I ... missed you today. I thought of you all day."

"I had work."

"I know," he said. At a hush. Turning so that he was on his side in bed. One ear buried in the pillow ... other ear exposed. With the phone against it. The receiver. "I know ... " His thin and ropy tail, pink and naked, thin and ... silky ... hung over the mattress and sheets. Hung an inch above the floor. Where any spider, the mouse realized in the back of his mind, could conceivably reach up and latch onto him and crawl up his tail and ...

"You could've ... you know, you can spend the night," was her suggestion.

"I know." He blinked away the thought of spiders. He'd had a mate (his ex-mate ... his male mate) ... who'd been afraid of spiders. Field had found that to be cute. In some way. But he supposed that was wrong, to think that. To think someone's fear, however small ... was cute. Fears weren't cute. They were scary.

"Why don't you?"

"I ... " Field's eyes met the television screen. "You watching Channel 20?"

"Not watching anything. I'm watching a pot of water boil on my stove."

"Watched pots ... "

"Well, that's ... not true, first of all."

"Don't watch it. It won't boil if you watch it."

"Field ... "

"What are you boiling?" His nose and whiskers twitched. He swallowed. The taste of lime in his mouth. Having been sucking on key lime buds, which were, ‘hard candies with a twist of lime.' And, again, he thought of his ex-mate. How he'd loved lime.

"Macaroni," she said.

He squinted. Though she couldn't see the squint. "That's ... my favorite," he whispered. Wondering why, talking to Aria, his mate, his love ... why, while talking to her, he would be thinking of previous loves. Why little things would remind him of ... other loves. Why think about such furs ... when the fur he currently loved, who was currently here for him, was on the phone? When he'd called her just to hear her voice?

"I know."

A smile melted onto his face. "You're a cheek."

"Am I?"

"Maybe."

"Field ... "

"I'm watching Rosemary & Thyme ... that British show on ... Channel 20. These two older ladies, they ... are experts in flowers. And they solve murders."

"Sounds ... wow, that sounds ... "

"Well, it's good." He swallowed again, clearing his throat again. It was November, and it was unseasonably warm. He feared that, when it finally got cold, it would get cold ... in a fierce, bad manner. Earlier, the mouse had been hunched over the wooden kitchen table, reading the Indianapolis Star. Had read an article about a fur who'd lost his mate ... she'd died of cancer. And the fur was telling his story. How he'd asked a preacher, ‘How do you love again?' And how the preacher had replied, ‘Your heart expands.' Field had stopped upon reading that ... had ... just stopped. Stared at that. ‘Your heart expands.'

" ... great. Sounds great." The rabbit referring to the mouse's show.

"Is that sarcastic?"

"Is it?" she countered.

He thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Sometimes, I wonder if you ... like to mess with my mind."

"Doesn't take much doing."

Field bit his lip at this.

"Field ... "

He sighed. "Mm?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah." He wriggled the toes of his foot-paws. Watching them. Squinting through his glasses. Mouse with glasses.

"You can come over ... "

"I don't wanna disturb you." He sniffled. Maybe he was getting a cold.

"You're my mate," she whispered, voice getting a bit faint ... the sound of a box-top being torn. The sound of something pouring into water. The noodles, he presumed. The sound of a digital timer being set. For ten minutes. "You never disturb me," she finished. "And you know, you might as well live over ... "

"I ... I ... we can't do that until we're married."

"We're mates."

"I want a ceremony. In a small church."

The rabbit breathed. Saying, "Come over here. Please."

"You're probably tired."

"Honey ... "

"Darling," Field countered.

"Honey, please," she said, undeterred. "You can come over. Honestly, it wouldn't bother me. I want you to come over. I was hoping you would."

"I miss you," he whispered.

Her voice was gentle on the other end of the line. "Miss you, too," she whispered. "But we saw each other ... yesterday. We've seen each other every day this week."

"I want to see you," he whispered, "every hour. Every minute. Every ... second. Nano-second. Until then, until that's possible ... I will eternally miss you."

The sound of boiling water.

"Aria?"

"Yes?"

"Oh ... nothing. You just ... went quiet for a moment."

"I was measuring some milk in a cup. Calls for one-third cup of milk."

"Macaroni cheese," he told her again, "is my ... that's my favorite food." A breath. Eyes darting to the television. "I know Felicity Kendall was in something else ... like, in the 70's." Pause. "She looks just as good now ... "

"Come over and have some," she offered, sidestepping his comment. "Some macaroni. Some ... company. Mm?"

"I'll miss Rosemary & Thyme ... it's getting good."

"Field ... what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he whispered.

"There's always something wrong ... "

"No ... "

"Yes."

"No," he whispered lamely.

"Yes," she told him.

The mouse sighed. His eyes darting about his room. "I really don't know," he admitted to her. "Sometimes, I just ... don't know. Sometimes, I'm just tired. Just ... wanting to ... be creative. To love. To ... "

"Come over," she whispered. "Come on."

"You live 30 minutes away. The macaroni will be cold then."

"I'll heat it in the microwave."

Field's nose and whiskers twitched.

"You're normally itching to be over here. What's wrong?"

"I'm so tired."

"Field," she said. Again.

"Yeah ... "

"Yeah?"

He nodded.

"Field?"

"Mm?"

"I can't see you nodding ... on the telephone."

He blushed. Realizing that she knew him so well ... as to guess his body language at any given time. "Yes," he said verbally. "I'll come over."

"Want me to tape the rest of your show? We can watch the last half of it ... when you get here. And eat the macaroni."

Field smiled, turning to lie on his back. Both ears free. Paw lazily holding the phone to his left ear now ... " ... okay." He smiled.

"I'm sorry you had to be lonely all day. I know it was your day off."

"You had to work. It's okay."

"Did you get out at all? Did you go anywhere?"

"No, I just ... took a bath. Used the internet. And ... wrote a bit. Wrote a short story. And ... "

"What was it about?"

"I'll bring it over ... "

"I'd like that." Bubbling water. Boiling water. The sounds of it. And the sound of a drawer opening. The sound of a paw fishing through silverware. "What was it about?" she asked again.

"Us," was Field's delicate whisper. "Love." A breath. "Our love."

She said nothing, but ...

... he could detect her blush, her ... smile. For as well as she knew him, he also knew her. They were on equal footing in that regard. In knowing each other's personalities. As to who's personality was better, was stronger, Field ... had no doubt that it was hers. Though she would tell him otherwise.

"Field," she finally said.

"Yeah?" he asked, still lying down. Eyes half-closed.

"You don't have to play hard to get ... you don't have to ... hold back. If you want me," she said, "I'm here. Just tell me," she whispered.

"I ... did."

"Tell me," she whispered again.

He swallowed. Bit his lip. "I ... want you," he told her.

"You're welcome to spend the night," she offered. The bubbling had stopped. The pot taken off the stove.

Field swallowed. Breathed. "Alright," he said. His voice so frail and fragile ... as to float away. To be in danger of, anyway.

"I love you," she told him.

"I love you, too," he responded ... a tit-for-tat. No hesitation this time. "I really love you, darling," he confessed to her.

"Hurry on over," she said, her voice ... glowing.

"Okay," Field whispered gently. Pausing. Mind already drifting to her. "Um ... tape the rest of my show."

"I will."

"I'll see you at 9:30, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you," he said again. Wanting to say it a hundred times. Each time he said it, he grew more confident. More ...

"Scurry," she whispered to him.

He giggled. Made a kissing sound into the phone and ... hung it up. Exhaled deeply, beaming, and he sat up, went to the television. And turned it off.

No more wall-staring tonight.

He beamed, paused at the door, and took a deep breath. "Whee!" he whispered to himself, turning the knob ...

And going to her.