... February 5, 2006 ...

After the anthem ... after God Bless America ... after the coin toss (tails won) ...

After introduction, after interim. After the hype and the 67,000 ... after flash-bulbs. Fireflies and starlit. In a dome. In Detroit.

After the essence of competition, of game ... took form in Michigan ...

After it started ...

After that, in the midst of it ... her exhale was crystalline. Visible vapor. "W-what ... what in the world," she shivered, "are you doing out here? It's five degrees." She sniffled. Arms crossed. In the doorway. As if standing in judgment of one world (and the next). Between things. Beneath the stars.

The mouse, unblinking, was staring at the snow. How white it was. How, when it was there ... it was never dark. A summer's dark, out here, out in the country ... was blinding. Was deep. Was blackness beyond ... what you could know. In winter, the whiteness of the snow, though, seemed to radiate some hidden glow. Made it never quite as dark as it should've been.

Aria waited.

"They're losing," was all he said. Sniffling, too. From the cold. So cold ... that it hurt to breathe. That it took his breath away. That it froze the edges of him. So cold that it burned.

She shook with quiet, unbelieving mirth. "Field, it's the first quarter." She sniffled and shifted. "Come on," she said. A whisper. A beckon. "They're only down by a field goal ... "

He shook his head.

She giggled. Waited. Smiling a bit ... smile fading to a gaze. Serene. Patient.
"I ... don't wanna go in," was all Field said, shrugging. He had a coat on. But no hat. No gloves. No wind-sock for his snaky tail. No ear-muffs. He sniffled. "I can't watch them lose. They can't lose."

"It's a game," she told him.

He shook his head quietly. "No, it's ... not." But wouldn't elaborate.

"Field," she whispered. And her whisper lowered in tone. Was very, very quiet. More quiet than the stillness of solstice. Seriousness. She meant business.

He nodded, eyes blinking, burning. Stomach flipping, turning. As he was. As he did. As he broached the entrance to the house ... and felt the numb of the heat. Like the feeling of putting your toes in a tub of hot water ... after having been traipsing in snow. The shock. The feeling, the knowing of the warmth ... mentally. Physically, no feeling. Momentary numbness.

She sidled up behind him. Put a paw on his side. Leaned in to quietly kiss his cheek. "Come on," she whispered again. This time in lighter vein. "It's not over yet."


... February 3, 2006 ...

"The Circle ... "

" ... City. The Circle City," he told her. Nodding. A living, scurrying repository of Hoosier facts. The rabbit being a Buckeye. Not knowing what should've been known. Not having inherited this.

"Just ... seems an odd name. It's ... "

"Well, it's ... I don't know," he said, faltering. Not in the mood. Looking around. To the sky and to the ground. Wondering how it would've been possible for a Hoosier to love a Buckeye. Wondering how they had met ... knowing how they had met. Remembering ... how they'd met at school. How, blushing, he'd felt the fool ... as she'd pursued him day-by-day. Never shaking. Never giving way. Until he agreed to give it a chance.

A chance that, thus far, had paid him handsomely.

She was quietly watching him. Watching him watching things. As the things watched them back. Prompting her to pose, in poetic prose, "Who watches the watchers?" The question was rhetoric, but Field was prone to swing his racket at such questions. Was forced to up his love. 15 love. 40. Swing.

Field turned, tilted his head. Thinking at what she'd said. "What?"

"Who watches the watchers?"

He blinked.

She elaborated, "Well, we're ... all watchers. We all watch. The weather. Colors. Civilization. Nature. We watch. With our eyes ... but who watches us? Who watches the watchers?"

"God," was the mouse's automatic reply. There was no question. There was no answer. It just was. "God," he said again, this time at a whisper. Nodding. Continuing to look around. "He made everything. So, in a way, we are ... watching him. You read a book a fur writes ... you're reading a part of him. You stare at a painting a fur paints ... you're staring at a part of him. In all things created, the creator is reflected in what he creates. And, therefore God is reflected in ... everything. Because He made everything. So, we continuously watch Him ... even if we don't know it. And, as we watch ... He watches back. Our eyes are watching God." There was a quiet devotion to his voice ... that one could've mistaken as intellectual. As blind. If one didn't know the mouse. But knowing him as she did ...

... Aria was quiet at that. Wasn't sure how to counter it. Or even if she should. She just nodded quietly, arms crossed. Coat on.

"There's, um," said Field, sniffling, "that spaghetti place down there," he said, nodding southward. "The Old Spaghetti Factory. I mean, it's ... quaint, you know. Thought we could go there."

Aria nodded, neck craned. Looking upward. The spire.

"I've been to the top."

She looked to him. Blinked.

"Of the monument," he said, nodding, nodding. "I've been to the top. It ... it's claustrophobic up there, and the windows slant outward, and ... you know, you feel like you could lean over and ... fall into oblivion."

She smiled at this. At the thought. At the way he worded it. At his eye movements as he said it.

"But, yeah, it's ... I haven't been up there since. And it was only that once."

"We could go up now," she suggested. Smiling.

Field huffed out a breath. Which filtered into the air. Like fog. Like the Spirit leaking from him. "No ... no, it's ... it's not ... "

" ... allotted for?"

"Well, I just ... I mapped out this day," said the mouse, whiskers twitching, eyes darting to the chocolate shop. To the symphony theater. All curved. All concave. "I mapped it out in my head. Going to the top of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument," he said, taking a breath, "was not on the schedule."

"No?"

"No," was all he said. "Anyway, it's all stairs, and ... you have to walk to the top, and it's cold, and ... "

She just nodded. There was no use arguing with him.

"Maybe ... maybe when it's warmer," was all he said.

She nodded again. Blowing out a breath. It was cold. Would get colder tomorrow. And even colder the next day. On Sunday. Super Sunday.

The buildings were decked in blue banners. In signs.

"Believe," they said. Simply. Simply said, "Believe."

A few said, "Believe in blue," but ... Field, as he eyed them, his eyes shining (eyes as blue, bluer ... than those signs, but more grey) ... Field preferred, "Believe." And he smiled.

Aria giggled.

He turned.

"You're just ... a tough cookie, mousey," she teased.

He bit his lip and flushed. Ears flushing. Ears nipped. Nipped by the cold.

They were downtown. On the Circle. The center of the city. The center of the state. The mouse, eyes half-open, could feel a dreamy imagery to this. Crossroads ... the road less traveled. Taken. I-31. I-32. Which to take? Which to do?

The Capitol was there ... down the way. The zoo. The botanical gardens. The IMAX. NCAA Hall of Champions. State Museum. Art Museum. Circle Center Mall. Victory Field. The RCA Dome. Conseco Fieldhouse.

And the skeleton that was, as of now, dubbed Indiana Stadium.

The mouse knew it wouldn't keep that name ... when it was done, someone would buy the naming rights, and it would be like a Christmas-tree lit thing. Retractable roof. 70,000 seating. Housing basketball, football, Lord knew what ... it would be a testament to modern design. And he wished, for a future goal, to visit it ...

But wished it would keep the name. Indiana Stadium.

Wished ...

The Bank One Tower, blue-grey and trapezoidal at the top (with two antennae) ... was behind and beside them. And the red key on the Key Bank Tower ... wasn't lit. It was cloudy, was overcast, but the key wasn't lit.

"Field ... "

"Mm?"

"Maybe we should go back to the hotel, you know, if ... you're just gonna wanna ... loaf around," she said. Shivering. "We've been mulling here for ten minutes. You took your pictures," she said, of the digital camera now tucked away in the mouse's pocket. "So, what ... what are we waiting for ... let's go."

"I'm not loafing," he whispered. "And ... it's only 11, you know. Not going back to the hotel."

They were down here ... on a romantic holiday. A weekend. They'd saved for it. They were mates. Though any observer (casual or otherwise) wouldn't have been able to guess it. For the mouse, in public, kept his emotions close to his chest. Played it aloof. Enigmatic. Was the ultimate observer and listener. Took in every bit of sensory input he could manage ... without giving a single sliver of output. Without giving them pieces of himself to chew on. Maybe a defensive reaction. Maybe fearing getting hurt. Maybe ... many things. Many things, it was, but ...

And he wasn't one for public affection. Aside from little looks. Aside from the way his whispered voice would give away ... his intimacy. Wasn't one for any sort of loud sexual yearning. Even in private, he was quiet ... about it. Never asked for it. Never said the word. Just ... intimated, in his shy, shy way ... intimated. And she, seeing this, seeing him intimate ... would initiate. The mouse and rabbit walking their private balance beams ... between animality and spirituality. Trying to balance. Wobbling. But making it work. Maybe.

Trying to figure each other out. Too enamored in the task to ever want to stop. Too entwined by now.

"Field ... "

"Yeah?" They were standing on the platform of the monument. Above the steps. Above the circular brick street that ran a loop around them ... leading east, west, north, south. Every which way. On the steps above the Civil War museum beneath the base of this. Beneath the street. Roads leading from every direction. And who was to say ... where each would take them? But should they forsake them ...

"I'm cold," she stated. "It's ... freezing. We're just standing here." There was a rising frustration in her voice. She was antsy.

Field had a tendency to daydream. To wander. To lose himself in thought, in scenario, in fantasy.

Aria was a more grounded kind of fur. Less fanciful.

They shared, however, an excess of energy. Which they were consistently burning on each other.

"Yeah," he whispered, huffing out a breath. And shivering, nose frozen. Whiskers weighted. "Um ... we can go into the chocolate shop?"

She nodded. Nodded. "Alright."

And they went down the steps, across the bricks ... under a blue-and-white banner which read, "The Road to 40 ... goes through here." Waited for a car to pass the circular, and ... went inside. Outside, on a bench, was a big, plush bear. Cinnamon. Wearing a scarf. The mouse had taken pictures beside that stuffed bear ... when he was little. When his grandmother used to bring him to the orchestra. To hear the Christmas show. Every year. When he had broken a snow-globe in a store. By accident. Which year was that ... or were they all too blurred to really know?

He knew it wasn't so easy, but ...

Inside, the chocolate was behind curved glass.

Chocolate cups. Peanut butter cups. White chocolate. Mint chocolate. Covering pretzels. Graham. In sticks. In ribbons.

Mint dipped in fudge.

Peppermint! Soft, chewy mint. Hard mint. Green and red mint.

Truffles.

Caramel turtles.

Strawberries dipped in hardened chocolate.

Field, putting a muzzle to his mate's ear, to Aria's ear, the rabbit's ear, confided (with a subtle, cheeky smile), "I don't even really like chocolate. I prefer mint."

She laughed airily, quietly. She knew that. She knew it, of course, but Field (often fearing he was being ignored) had a tendency to repeat information about himself. Even when he knew she already knew. He had to be sure. She smiled and whispered back, "And you're in a chocolate shop? A mouse gone mad, I tell you ... "

"I'm doing it for you," he replied. As if doing some brave thing. Some bold, emblazoned thing.

"May I help you?" asked a voice. A fur behind the counter.

"Um, we're just ... uh, we're just looking," stuttered Field. Sidling up behind Aria. As if she were a shield. Nodding. Sniffling. Feeling a fool with his ears in ear-muffs. Mice looked ridiculous in ear-muffs. They had such large ears. Aria's ears were slimmer. More graceful. Less noticeable when muffed.

"Ooh, Field," said Aria, pointing with a mitten-covered paw. "Ooh, look at that."

"Mm?" He looked. She was pointing to the big, homemade peanut butter cups. They were thick. They were creamy.

"Mm?" she echoed, smiling.

"I'll get, uh, two," he said.

"Get four," she whispered, nose-to-nose. Her whiskers brushing his. Her fur white, snow-white, creamy ... from cheeks to neck to belly to ...

"Why?" he asked, blushing ... as he wrestled his thoughts away from ... where they were going. Trying to concentrate.

"Cause I said."

"Well, that's ... " He blushed at her proximity. In these tight quarters. Around all this chocolate. What if the chocolate melted ... " ... that's ... silly."

"It's our weekend. We're allowed to be silly. We're allowed to eat as many," she said, "peanut butter cups ... " She swiped at his tail. " ... as we want."

The mouse saw no reasoning in that, but went along with it. And bought four peanut butter cups. Feeling better for buying them, and not knowing why. Maybe it was part of the experience. Part of this. Part of doing. Part of living. Buying chocolate from a chocolate shop in Capital City ... when you didn't need to do so. Maybe it was a blessing.

Aria clutched the white paper bag with glee as they left the shop. "I can't wait to try these," she said. "We're going to save them for tonight."

The mouse, walking a step or two behind her, had to smile at ... her capacity for joy. Field liked to think he was tuned to all details. Could see the beauty in small things. But his beauty, his ability to see it, to feel it ... was often too ... epic. A sweeping, emotional spectrum. A noble fight. A good fight. And not as intimate as maybe it should be. Not as ... full of abandon. With her, with the rabbit, joy was intimate. Was to be readily shared. Was to ... be enjoyed. And as she flashed him a smile, he couldn't deny her a smile back. A genuine smile back.


... February 4, 2006 ...

It was one in the morning.

"Um, I ... um ... this orange stuff," said Field. "Better than the ... the grape."

She giggled, taking the glass from him. Put it on the bedside desk. "Stop it."

"I've only had two." The orange really was better than the grape. "Mm ... it's ... better than the grape," he insisted. He'd had ... raspberry, black cherry, watermelon, lime, orange, and grape, and ... green apple, yes. Green apple. Green apple was ... tart. Watermelon and orange, those were the best. The mouse would only drink fruit-flavored beer. Or fruit-flavored alcohol. Maybe he was flowery, but ... only the fruit stuff. Strawberry tequila mixed with milk. Tasted like strawberry milk. That had been good. But ... he didn't like to have to mix his drinks. He preferred to simply drink them. Glass of ice, full glass of ice. A plastic glass ... so as not to pick up so much condensation. To immediately sip it ... not that he was lazy. He just preferred something ... he could handle. He could like.

He liked it.

Did he need a rationale?

"Yeah, but ... you're starting to float away on me," she said, running her paw across his forehead.

"You had two, too ... " And he paused. Frowned. That didn't sound ... right. Grammatically.

The rabbit giggled at the mouse's look. And replied, "Well ... we've both had enough. We're loose." A smile. "We're ... relaxing. Any more, and we risk getting drunk, and ... what's the point of ... trying to relax if we can't remember it?" Her muzzle was to his cheek. "Or if it gives us a headache?"

"I don't want ... love to give me a headache," the mouse said. Sounding innocent as he said it. Child-like. Wide-eyed.

"Neither do I." Her kiss was to his cheek. So, so sweet.

Field closed his eyes and breathed of it. Of the kiss. Of her.

The hotel room was near-dark. The light from the bathroom left on to provide a slew of shadows. To allow them to properly look into each other's eyes.

He put his nose in the fur of her cheek. Breathed. Breathed. Slowly. Steadily. "You know what," he whispered.

"What?" she whispered back.

Quiet.

"What?" she prodded, paws on his sides. Gently on his bare, furry sides.

"You smell nice," he said slowly ... softly. "You feel nice." A pause. An exhale. "I love you." The words were unforced. Were quiet and simple and stated as fact.

The rabbit felt a well of happiness bubble inside, behind her eyes. "Mm ... " She gently kissed his lips. "Honey ... "

"Yeah?" He exhaled, inhaled ... exhaled ... one paw cupped beneath a breast. The other around her back. Pulling her belly to belly. Both of them on their sides in bed.

Her paw coiled around his tail. As if it were a spaghetti noodle in a fork tine. She breathed out. "You taste," she whispered, kissing him softly, "like orange."

He smiled at his. Giggled at this. It was still cold out there ... must've been. A wind chill of minus 7. Must've ... but ...

... so warm in here.

So near ...

Were he not so dizzy, were he not a bit tipsy, he would ask her to "dance with me now, darling" ... only ... he didn't know how to dance. Maybe they could sway. They could sway, could sway, could chat the night away.

Chat about things.

About being in corners. Fighting demons.

Could cry on each other's shoulders.

He would tell her how he loved her ability to live. How he loved her brightness. How it touched him so much ... that she would care for him. That she would tend to him. How she gave him confidence. How she was fun. How he could trust her. And how ... he didn't know why, but it ... it just was. She just was. It was love.


It was 1:30 now ... and they were well on their way ...

And Field, snuggled, squeakily ... snuggling ... had the passing thought of them being watched. By God, maybe ...

Her paw was running up and down the scar on his thigh. When he'd cut a gash in his leg ... climbing a rusty fence. Her thumb went over the fur there.

Field huffed, making dainty, little hip movements ...

She swallowed, nose breathing ... tilting her head ...

They sighed and sank and melted in the bed.

And before the passion took them, before their expression took his mind into a fevered, frantic rising ... the mouse remembered something. Remembered his anxiety. His depression. His myriad problems. The things that felt so much ... that were so much ... like fear (for they were). Some cub was wild and shouting in his memory. Shouting, "Coast is clear!"

Perhaps Field's younger self. Perhaps his former self ...

Giving him permission to let go. To enjoy this. To love her. To be.

To let down that guard ...

To swim in that beautiful sea.


... February 5, 2006 ...

" ... but not near enough. Loss on downs, and the Seahawks will have to punt."

Field smiled, biting his lip. "Mm ... mm-hmm."

"If they lose ... "

"You lured me back into the house ... don't ... don't think they'll lose. Don't air those thoughts," Field asked.

"Alright," she whispered. And she swiped the popcorn bowl from his lap. "I just know how personally you take things. I mean, it's ... if they lose, it's ... not, like, a ... Hoosier thing, you know. You don't have to take it personally. Just ... keep it in perspective." She paused.

"What are you doing?" He looked to her. And to the popcorn.

"I'm having some popcorn."

"Well ... I ... "

"You own the bowl? You own the popcorn bowl?" She grinned. A daring grin.

"No, but ... "

"Well, then it's mine. It's staying in my," she emphasized, "lap."

"Just stop it," he said, smiling a bit. Looking to the television screen. The commercials. Some furs said the commercials were the best part. But they got lamer every year. Not like Apple 1984. Or "where's the beef" or ... those were classics. No, it was the game ...

Field turned his eyes to the screen. The game back on.

"They'll win," Aria assured, nibbling on a piece of popcorn. Nibbling like he did. Like a mouse would do.

"They need to," Field whispered. "They have to."

"Quick slant, left side ... good for a first-down on the fifteen yard-line. Quick snap, quick throw ... Colts in business at the 49 yard-line of Seattle."

"Alright ... come on, Peyton ... please," the mouse begged. Eyes on the screen. Peyton calling audibles like they were going out of style. Field getting squirmy just watching him do that, watching him eat the clock ... wishing he would hike the damn ball. Wishing he would win this. Win it now. Seal this.

"Manning ... takes the snap. Eyes the line of scrimmage. Harrison, wide-left, off at the snap ... ball's up ... the throw to Harrison, and he has it! Dodges the tackle, to the thirty ... "

" ...yes, yes, yes!"

" ... twenty-five, twenty, and taken down at the eighteen yard-line."

Field squeaked and fidgeted, heart pounding.

The crowd was roaring.

The camera was panning.

Lights were flashing.

"Edge runs it up the middle ... gain of three, three and a half yards ... down to the fifteen. Colts at 2 and 7."

The mouse exhaled.

"It's only the first half, Field," said Aria ... " ... tell me you're not gonna explode by evening's end?"

"Aria," said Field, a tad annoyed. Eyes wide.

She stuck her tongue out at him. Grinning.

He frowned, fingers picking at the nails of his thumbs ... a nervous habit. Picking at the cuticles.

"Fade, corner ... Peyton to the left, eyes, eyes on the end-zone. Can't find it, can't find it, he's being rushed ... Peyton almost tackled. Heaves it right ... and incomplete."

The clock stopped.

The mouse blew out a breath. Which was drowned out by the sound coming from the television.

Easy to forget the snow and the cold.

Easy to forget the passing of all of these days. The reality of growing old.

Aria, in the midst of it, in the midst of the moment, put her muzzle to the mouse's left ear. Whispered something unseen.

The mouse blushed and looked to her. Ears turning red.

"Mm?" she went.

He nodded shyly. "When ... when the game's over ... "

"Of course." She batted (teasingly) at his nose. "Want some more water?" She got up. Was gonna go to the kitchen.

"Um ... goldfish crackers. And, uh, that ... diet cherry-vanilla Doctor Pepper ... "

"And they say you're not demanding," she chided, grinning. Getting up.

"Touchdown Colts!"

The mouse squeaked an emphatic yes. The rabbit hearing it from the kitchen. Calling back, "They scored?"

"Yes!"

She smiled. "Stokley?"

"Wayne."

"Well ... "

"Three quarters left," said Field, meeting her eyes as she returned (with the crackers and the soda).

"Sure you're not gonna scurry to the cold again?"

The mouse flushed. Feeling the fool. "Well ... I'll try not to." He managed a smile (at his own expense).

She kissed his cheek for this. And squeezed his paw.

He wanted to spill it all ... then. To thank her for the weekend. For their weekend. For the past three days. And for this. And for her company. For keeping him warm in the cold, cold country. For trying to see the things he saw. And for helping him to see the things beyond his own eyes. For helping him to grow. For helping him to know ...

For being here. Not there. Not elsewhere. Yeah, Berlin must be nice. New York. Philly ... London, maybe ... but those were the last places anyone would want to be.

No, no, the mouse ... wanted to be here. Be in this. In this sleepy, silent hamlet ... where his restless heart could go idle. Where he could, at the end of it, find his rest. Where each firefly and flower and full moon was a neighbor. Was a birthright.

Where a clothesline could be strung like paper kites. Blowing your words right back at you. Putting you in your place.

Where your heart could exhale.

He was here. And she was here. And ... they were both alive, and ... the mouse, suddenly, found perspective. If only for a second. Realized who and what he should be betting on. Be putting his hopes on.

Wanted to tell her, ask her ... how it was that she, this rabbit, this kind, warm soul ... had come to be with a Hoosier mouse in a Hoosier house.

Wanted to ask, but didn't. Simply ... he felt gratitude.

For her being an anchor ...

For making it easier to believe.

"They'll win," she told him. Assurance in her tone.

And he nodded. Blue-eyed, he believed they would.