AUTHOR'S NOTE -- This delves into pieces of Adelaide's history ...




" ... so, THEN, the insect says, ‘That's NOT my antennae'."

Adelaide blinked.

A pause.

"Get it?" Ketchy asked, full of energy. Whiskers twitching, and bushy, brown tail flagging about. "Get it?" A grin. "The ‘antenna' was REALLY his ... "

"I get it ... " The bat swivelled on her swivel-stool. A bit to the left. A bit to the right. Eyes on her friend's. "Really, I get it. It's ... "

"Okay. Mm ... you just," said the squirrel, reaching for some returned books. Old books, new books. All SMELLING of books (as sense would have it). That papery, crisp smell. Made you think of the bookstore, but library books ... weren't as fresh. More worn. But that, in itself, was charming. But she stacked the books (which Adelaide had already scanned into the computer, validating their return). Forming a small pile. And then carrying them out from behind the counter. And toward the left wall-shelves. "You just didn't laugh," the squirrel continued.

"Well, it wasn't very funny," the pink-furred bat supplied. Spreading her wings with a small, apologetic smile.

"It's a penis joke! You're supposed to laugh ... "

"I still don't see why. I mean ... "

"Just BECAUSE."

"I love penises. I just don't think they make good punch-lines," Adelaide assured, shaking in silent mirth. What a conversation! She flushed hot beneath her fur ... feeling a bit silly now. A bit girlish.

"Well, I only told it cause ... you like bugs and all."

"Yeah. As FOOD." The bat (as her species did) ate bugs daily. A necessary part of her diet. She often got ribbed for it ... most furs thought it was gross.

"Well, I thought it was funny," Ketchy said (again).

"Look, fine ... I just ... I don't like yiff jokes. It's," the bat said, more seriously, more quietly, "supposed to be holy. Yiff, I mean. You know ... "

"So, what, you're anti-jokes now?"

The bat made a face. "I just thought it was a bit crude, is all ... I mean, what was the point of the joke? WAS there a point? Other than to be delightfully inappropriate?"

"I think penises are very appropriate," the squirrel continued, flashing a grin.

And Adelaide bit her lip. But ... giggle-chittered! "Oh, you're ... you!" she stammered, giggling. "Stop it ... "

"That's a girl ... " The squirrel smiled. Glad to hear the laughter.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation. This is embarrassing."

"Hey, you started it ... you should've faked a laugh, and it would've ended there. You're just really uptight today. Have been all week."

"Mm ... whatever ... "

"You're not ... in heat, are you?"

"What? No." A flush. "No," she whispered.

"Just thought ... that would've explained it. You being moody and all."

"I'm NOT moody. I'm just ... tired." Adelaide let out a breath, swiveling back to the computer on the wooden counter. This entire library (the Sheridan town library) was old. A hundred years now? Or less. Had to be a bit less. This place was built on a Carnegie grant, and had been here ... well, for a long time. The 20's. But, according to the town zoning commission, and the town board, it had outstayed its welcome. It was to be vacated next spring. In favor of a new, fancy library at the end of main street (this library was in the middle of main street).

Adelaide would be sorry to see the building go. She wasn't gonna lose her job, no. She'd ... work at the new one, but ... this building had history. Had character. Had some kind of entrenched meaning. To just rip it all up and ... pretend it was never there? There was no respect in that. There was no making do with what you had, with what was working ... with what mattered. It was ...

... a new library wasn't NEEDED, is basically what it was.

There wasn't a need.

There was a want. Maybe to show it off. To ... flaunt it to the other small towns in the region. Anyway, it ...

... the whole thing seemed too political. Just like the shut-down of the rural elementary school. The one she'd gone to for five years (first through fifth grade). Now, all the rural furs had to go to school in town. They no longer had a school of their own.

The bat sighed. Pushing these things out of her mind. But, honestly, she had plenty of time to think, and let her mind wander. The library wasn't exactly bustling. Not today. Not ever. Not in Sheridan.

"Some of these books," Ketchy said, still putting them back on the shelves, "still have those paper flaps in the back, with the stamps, and ... I mean, the LAST time some of these were checked out before, you know, just now ... was, like, years ago."

"I bet you anything," the bat added, "you could find books that haven't even been OPENED in twenty years. Just collecting dust on the shelves."

"Yeah. Dust." The squirrel's whiskers twitched. Wasn't good for furs to breathe in all that dust. What with the sensitive noses and all. Made you sneeze. Feel all congested.

Adelaide swivelled (some more) in her chair. Her short, stubby bat tail ... unmoving behind her.

Ketchy, finished putting up the batch of books, came back for another. "Why am I putting all these on the shelves?" she asked aloud. They were the only two in here. And their voices echoed a bit, and then got muffled in all the rows of books. Sometimes, they would get teased, the squirrel and bat. Would get calls of, ‘hey, book-fur' ...

"Because I did all the computer work. So, you're doing the manual work."

"How fair is that?" the squirrel said, frowning a bit.

"I don't know." Adelaide just gave a toothy grin. "How fair?" she countered.

"Not very."

"But you're having SO much fun," the bat teased. "I can SO tell ... "

"Well ... you know, there are a lot of books here. I might pull a muscle."

The bat, exhaling, slipped off her stool. And ... " ... fine," she whispered gently, with no ill-will. "I'll lend a paw."

The squirrel smiled. " ... ‘kay. Mm."

The two femmes divided the books into piles. And each of them took one ... walking slowly, barely able to see over the top of the books they were holding. And ...

... a recipe for disaster, to be sure.

A squeak! A trip! A clutter-crumple of books and limbs, and ...

" ... you okay?" Adelaide asked, carefully putting her books down (atop a nearby shelf). "Mm?" She went to Ketchy.

"Just a bit dazed," the squirrel assured. "Stubbed my toes." The squirrel wasn't wearing shoes. It was late-summer, and ... very warm outside. And, inside this old building, almost just as warm. Oh, there were ceiling fans to stir the air, but ... that's WHAT they did. Stirred. Basically, just blowing warm air all around. But, anyway, they were both in bare foot-paws. "Mm." Ketchy drew her legs up.

"Here." Adelaide knelt down.

"Mm ... mm ... what are you doing ... "

"Massaging your foot-paw."

"Mm ... that ... that actually feels really good. You know pressure points and all that?"

" ... my father used to give massages to my mother. He taught me how."

"To give massages?"

"Well, it's not that difficult ... I mean, I'm telepathic. I can intuit how to relax furs. I can read in their minds what feels good. What to touch. What not to."

A small giggle-squeak. "You should be a therapist. Physical. Mental. Some kind of therapist, you know? Seriously ... you'd be good at it."

Adelaide gave no response. Simply massaging Ketchy's foot-paw. And then stopping. "Better?"

The squirrel nodded. Whiskers twitching. "You okay, though?"

A quiet nod from her, and a rising, and ... she paced away, and then paced back. And then leaned against a shelf. Ketchy still on her rump on the floor, knees bent, looking up. Bushy tail flagging.

"Adelaide?" the squirrel asked.

"Yeah?" the bat whispered.

"I asked if you were okay ... "

"Mm-hmm."

"You, uh ... you miss him? Don't you?" was her guess.

A hesitation. "Bernard?"

"Yeah," the squirrel whispered. "I mean, you talked about him every day. He wasn't just a summer fling. I ... know you don't believe in flings. You mated him. And to lose that, it's ... well, I know how hard ... "

"He was ... " Adelaide sighed, made a face. " ... too flighty."

"You, uh ... wanna talk," the squirrel said, getting on her knees, grabbing all the strewn books. Forming a pile. "You wanna talk about it?" She stood up with the books, and, this time, made it to the shelf.

Adelaide re-fetched her own book-pile.

And, together, they restocked the shelves. Quiet (for a moment).

"Stupid decimal system," the squirrel chittered. "Isn't it the most stupid thing ... just arrange them in, like, thematic sections, and by author names, and ... "

A giggle-chitter. "Well ... " Adelaide slipped a book in between two others on the shelf. They all had blue spines. She thought it was kind of pretty.

"We were, uh, talking," Ketchy said, squinting at the spine of a book, trying to read the numbering, "about, uh ... Bernard."

"Were we?" Adelaide asked innocently. Feeling the warm breeze of the ceiling fan that was almost directly overhead of them, several feet above them. Whir-whir-whir ... silent whirring. "More like, YOU were ... "

"Really, though ... I mean, you're so good at nosing furs to good mental health, but ... you know, someone's gotta take care of YOU."

The bat flushed a bit (beneath her pink fur).

"I'm just worried ... you know ... "

"I know ... " Adelaide finished with her book-pile.

Ketchy soon finished, too, and they meandered back to the desk in the center of the room. This was the main room of the library. In the basement ... were all the children's books. And a books-for-sale room, where you could buy old library books for, like, fifty or seventy-five cents. Some of them were good finds. Adelaide and the others that worked here got to take a free book home once a week ... for working here.

No one regularly took advantage of that but the bat.

Old books were so ... romantic. Weren't they? In essence, anyway. Maybe she'd open the pages and find the story inside to be dull, but ... just the fact that it WAS an old book, and had been in dozens and dozens of pairs of paws, and ... she could only IMAGINE ... whose paws it had been in. In this town. In which houses. Maybe furs putting down the book to eat, sleep, make love ... what things that had book witnessed?

What words had it shared?

And what words had it heard?

For things that said so, so much ... books were so quiet. And it was something that, in a way, haunted her. It gave her chills sometimes.

"Adelaide?"

"Mm?" A blink.

Ketchy waved a paw in front of the bat's muzzle. "Zonin' out on me."

"I'm still here," was Adelaide's soft, tired response.

"Raspberry iced tea?"

"Mm?"

"From the back room. Want a glass?"

The bat nodded quietly. They were done with book-shelving. And she watched, in silence, as Ketchy went in back, to the small kitchen in the staff room.

"Mm ... this is new stuff, you know? I got it at the IGA across the street. It's, like, this condensed raspberry iced tea ... liquid ... and you just put two tablespoons in a glass of cold water. Or is it ... it's not condensed, is it? Is it concentrate?"

"Um ... I don't know," Adelaide replied weakly.

"Well, it's good, whatever it is. And it's RASPBERRY. So ... and it comes from Wyoming. Can you believe that. That's crazy. Who bottles tea concentrate in Wyoming ... "

"Yeah," Adelaide responded.

The sound of ice cubes clinking. The sound of the faucet running. "No, but it's good stuff. It's so hard to find a good raspberry iced tea. And that's the ONLY tea I'll drink. The ONLY tea ... "

Adelaide had to smile a bit ... as the squirrel rambled on. Rodents had a tendency to do that. Blabber. It was all that unchained anxiety ... that they funneled into nervous energy, that manifested itself as twitches, blabs, and ... it was so cute. Wasn't it? It really was, she decided. Cute ... Bernard had been like that. He'd had energy. LOTS of it.

"Here," Ketchy offered gently, having returned.

A nodding, quiet thank-you from Adelaide, and they were both sitting behind the desk-counter. Both holding chilled glasses of raspberry iced tea in their paws. Both sipping.

Both quiet.

The fans, still whirring. Outside, the sound of a few cars going up and down the main street. The sounds of birds in the trees outside the open windows. The sound of ... small-town Indiana. A poor farming town of three thousand souls. A town with no stoplight. And all that inhabited it ... going about their business. All making sounds as they did so. Sounds that became quiet background.

Sounds you never noticed until they were gone.

A swallow from the squirrel. A sigh. "So ... Bernard?"

Adelaide, her winged arms at her sides, paws holding her glass ... she stared at her drink. "He's gone."

"I know, but ... "

" ... two weeks." She looked up. "But I'm ... I'm doing fine."

"You loved him."

The pink-furred bat's eyes went distant. "I did," she whispered. "Why ... why do I fall for the different ones, Ketchy? You know? It's like I'm setting myself up for this ... "

"You like uniqueness."

"I don't think that's why ... "

"Hey, you asked ... "

"I did, but ... I don't think that's why. I don't know why. I just ... " Bernard had been a hummingbird. A ruby-throated hummingbird. "He was gorgeous," Adelaide whispered, pupils dilating. Remembering the morning light glinting off his gem-like feathers ... from beside him, in bed. How he was active even in repose. "Just gorgeous. And he had SO much energy, and ... was SO bright? You know? It was so refreshing. And nobody wanted him, and I did ... I mean, I could handle it. He wasn't too much for me. I thought. That's what I thought, but ... he started becoming a blur. After a while, and ... then, one day, he just up-and-wanted to migrate."

"Migrate?"

"To the tropics. ‘There are flowers there! More flowers! More sun!' He spoke in those high, sugary pitches. Like sweetness dripping off his flickering tongue ... I ... I remember my muzzle on his beak. I ... but ... dammit," she whispered, eyes welling. She closed them. Paused. Breathed. Breathed, and ... collected, she continued, "Way, way south, down to Mexico. PAST Mexico ... he wanted to drop everything and migrate, and ... " Her lips to her tea glass. A small sip. A swallow. Licking her lips a bit. "And I didn't," she whispered.

The squirrel put her glass down on the table-top. "You okay?" she whispered.

A quiet nod. "He didn't leave because ... because he didn't like me, or because he was unfaithful. It wasn't a broken relationship. He just ... wanted to live worlds away. And I wanted my home. He wanted a tropical life more than he wanted me. And, in a way ... I wanted Indiana more than I wanted him. Cause I WOULDN'T go ... so, I guess, really, we both ... we both chose our homes over each other's hearts." A small shake of the head. "Isn't that ... is it supposed to be like that?"

"Couldn't you work anything out? Reach a compromise?"

Another shake of the head. "Bernard was ... always thinking too fast for his own good. He always made up his mind before he spoke. I mean, hummingbirds are wired. You think YOU'RE wired? HE ... was wired. A live-wire. With a flaring, meteoric spirit that was dazzling to behold, and yet ... I got burned," she whispered. "He didn't mean it. I mean, I'm not ... I'm not," she stammered, clutching her glass, the condensation soaking into her paw-pads. "I'm not mad." Her voice was very cautious. "I'm not," she insisted. But, hearing herself repeating it, she knew that, on some level, she was. That was a sin ... jealousy? Spite? She tore it to shreds ... and took a breath. "It just hurt, is all. I'll heal ... "

"He just ... up and left you, though? Without listening to your needs? That's not what a mate does ... a mate is selfless. A mate ... "

" ... look, he ... he wasn't here for the long run. He just sort've got stuck in Indiana. I just ... and then he inherited some money from an uncle. He had a chance to go. He wanted out before winter, and ... he was going, regardless. He wanted the tropics more than me, and ... " She trailed. Sighed. Her pink eyes darting. Her muzzle wearing a look of frustration. Her angular, swept-back ears still listening to the fan. A sigh. Weak movements of her winged arms. "Don't know. I mean, why wouldn't I go?" She looked up.

Ketchy opened her muzzle ...

" ... huh? Why wouldn't I?" Adelaide asked.

Ketchy bit her lip. "I don't know."

"I mean, I'm not ... THAT well off, am I? What did I stay for? My parents over in Zionsville? My job at the library?"

"Your home," the squirrel whispered. "That's where your heart is. Family, friends, yes ... you wanna live here."

"Yeah ... yeah, my home," Adelaide whispered back. Sighing. "But I did love him. And ... but, you know, I ... he was always miles ahead. He was never WITH me. He was ahead of me. Always, and ... hummingbirds congregate in the tropics. I mean, as a winged thing, how could I compare to THAT? To being a jeweled ... beauty?"

"You ARE beautiful ... I mean, just look at you."

"I'm not a hummingbird."

"Does it matter?"

"No," was the whisper. "And ... he just couldn't put down roots. I can't see him staying in one place down there. He'll be a jungle-hopper." A pause. "And I've lived in enough places," the bat whispered. She'd been conceived and born in Australia, her parents being Christian missionaries down there ... and having come back to America, to Indiana, before her first birthday, and ... in a few different towns. Winding up in Sheridan. Where she'd grown up and gone to school. Where she still lived (on her own), just outside the town limits, in an old, worn-down farm-house. Her parents now lived in Zionsville, in a nicer house. Her father was ... not in the best of health. Was trying to take it easy for a while. "I don't know," she said again, just to fill the silence. Just to have something to say.

Ketchy's whiskers twitched. She tilted her head, staring at her friend.

Adelaide sighed, putting her glass down. And eyes darting. "Anyway, he left, and ... I couldn't go. I'm a Hoosier. I'm ... he wanted to live a different life. I wanted this life. And I DO love my parents. I really do, and ... and you, and ... I ... and I ... I learned from it. I mean, you know ... maybe ... maybe," she said, swallowing, "I shouldn't have ... "

"Adelaide ... " Ketchy's paw went to one of hers.

" ... shouldn't ... gotten intimate with him." Heavily blinking her eyes. The tears going silently, slowly down her cheeks. Soaking into the fur. Sniffing. Shaking her head, eyes closing. "His heart beat ... five hundred times a minute." A pause. "Five hundred times," she whispered. A swallow. Eyes opening. "My heart could never keep up," was her simple statement.

Ketchy's throat ached for her friend. She mouthed, soundlessly, ‘I'm sorry' ...

"It's okay." A pause. "It was fun, and it was ... while it lasted, it was unique, and beautiful, and ... but it was just one of those things, you know?" she whispered. "It was moving too fast to hold onto. Just didn't work, and ... and it's better it ended now, you know, after just a few months. I mean, while ... while ... you know?"

The squirrel squeezed the bat's paw.

The door opened, and a mouse slipped in ... quietly going to the right.

The two femmes lowered to hushes.

"Just ... to love and learn," was the bat's whisper. A slow, slow breath. She returned the squeeze. Squeezing the squirrel's paw. "I just wish I didn't fall for the impossible ones." She, the bat, full of passion and flight ... toothy, assured. Confident. Always, she was drawn to the ones in pain, or the artistic ones, or the ... she felt the need to care for them. To nurture them. To make them flower. Was that so bad ... ?

"Well, one day, I think you'll be the one to make an impossible fur turn possible."

"I pray about it," Adelaide said ... looking back at the computer. Swallowing. And she reached for her tea.

"Well, I know God will provide for you ... you're a good fur."

"Mm," was all the bat went.

"I'm serious."

"Ketchy, it's ... can we not talk about it anymore? It's ... too raw," the bat whispered. "I need to ... "

" ... sorry," the squirrel whispered, squeezing Adelaide's shoulders now. "Just ... I'm here, okay?"

A quiet nod. "Thank you."

A warm smile. "You're welcome."

Adelaide breathed deep. Love. It could be handled so cruelly ... but it, in itself, was so, so pretty, and so pure. And nothing could taint that. And that's why she wanted it again. Wanted it more. And why she would pick up the pieces, and why her heart would heal, and why she would keep trying for it. Again and again. Why she would voluntarily go nose-over-tail for the right guy ... cruel, in the wrong paws. But in the right paws? Stunningly pretty.

And as she was thinking ...

... the mouse who'd entered a few minutes ago, he came to the desk.

"You find everything okay?" Adelaide asked, in a friendly, genuine manner.

A shy, nervous nod from the mouse. Who put forward a book.

"A cookbook?" Ketchy asked, from a few feet away. Where she was leaning against the table-counter, finishing her glass of tea.

"I, uh ... I ... I wanna make broccoli soup," the mouse said. His voice soft, shy. Almost so that you wanted to ask him to repeat himself (just to be SURE of what he said). A bit effeminate. Not only in how he spoke, but in how he carried himself, and ...

" ... yeah? Cream of broccoli, you mean?" Adelaide asked, opening the cover of the book. Scanning the bar-code on the flap.

"Yeah. Um ... yeah." His whiskers twitched. As if he were vibrating from some dark, inner pain. He wasn't even making eye contact at all. His fur was honey-tan. He was very fit. Very trim. Evidently spent a lot of time outdoors.

"Alright," Adelaide whispered gently. Poor guy ... " ... mm ... well, this is due back the day after Labor Day, okay?"

A hurried nod. "Th-thank you," the mouse stuttered, and he turned, and ... scurried to the door.

Adelaide, unblinking, watched him go.

Ketchy, in turn, looked from the door to ... the bat. "You like him?"

A blink. "What?"

"The mouse."

"Well, I ... I was just curious."

"That was Field. He was in our graduating class ... "

"Really?"

"Yeah, you remember ... he never talked to anyone. He had some anxiety issues. I mean, he was the most mouse-like of mouses ... he got bullied by the predators." Her voice lowered. "I heard," the squirrel whispered, "that he was gay, but ... he got hurt real bad, and ... he's had a rebirth of his faith. He's straight now. Very religious."

"Mm," was Adelaide's gentle sound. "He seemed so gentle ... " Like a song she should've known, but ... for some reason, didn't. There was something compelling ...

"Well, I don't know his whole story, but ... he doesn't have a mate."

The bat looked to the squirrel.

Ketchy gave a head-tilt, and ... raised her brow.

Adelaide bit her lip, looking back to the door. She'd read over the mouse's mind. Not his thoughts. But his emotions, and ... he was terribly lonely, terribly isolated. He was ...

" ... needs someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe ... something else."

"Ketchy," Adelaide objected lamely.

"I'm just saying. He lives about six miles out of town, in a little farm-house ... all by himself. Plus, he knows how to cook."

A small, small smile.

"Maybe you should ‘bump' into him sometime?" the squirrel suggested helpfully. "Do you both some good ... "

"Sometime," Adelaide whispered, and she took a breath. Love had been cruel to that mouse. As it had been cruel to her. But whatever happened to him ... must've been crueler. But what was it to her? Why couldn't she get him out of her mind? She thought for a bit longer, and ...

... downed the rest of her tea.

"Thirsty?" Ketchy asked.

"Why's it have to be so hot in here?" was all the bat said.

A spreading, melting smile on the squirrel's muzzle. "Another glass?"

And the smile spread to the bat. "Please." Suddenly, she felt very pretty.