Another Story

There's mouseshit on my desk. Is that a bad thing?

I'm talking about my third-floor belfry desk, the one where I commune with the Muse and entertain Second Thoughts. The Muse is an easy date, requiring not much more than dinner and a few dozen drinks. Second Thoughts is another story.

I first had Second Thoughts back in The Seventies, when both of us were at Loose Ends, one of the outer ring suburbs of The Seventies. I found myself at Loose Ends when My Lease ran out, and I was forced to take Stock and leave town. Stock hated Change as much as I did, and yowled from her box in the back seat the whole time.

Two carloads and I was moved. Stock lived to be thirteen. My Lease rotted in Hell, is what I heard.

I was introduced to Second Thoughts by Bad Choices, one of those situational friends one acquires when one is in Transition, one of those cul-de-sac hoods on the fringes of Loose Ends.

One night I found myself getting drunk with Bad Choices at some nautically-themed leisure lounge out on the strip, watching Paul Revere and the Raiders elude a comeback, when through the haze of nostalgia I locked eyes with this character skulking in the shadows like the Hesperus. Turns out it was Second Thoughts, a distant cousin of Bad Choices, who reluctantly introduced us. The rest is history.

We've been together, off and on, ever since.

It's a dirty little clandestine affair, carried out in Murky Recesses, a Motel 6 knock-off with franchises across the Known Universe. We manage to reconnect every few life crises or so, but our chances of ever being together are miniscule. I continually remind myself that it's not the destination but the journey, especially when the destination is Cold Day In Hell.

If my husband suspects anything, he's playing It Cool, a Free Cell knock-off available on certain cell phones. Sometimes I'll catch him in a corner of the basement, hunched over his LG Dare, playing It Cool like there's No Tomorrow. Which, incidentally, is where the Muse hails from. And which is why she finds my belfry so distasteful at times, reminding her, as it does, too much of home.

At least, she claims to be the Muse. Sometimes I'm not so sure. I mean, wouldn't the real Muse be bothered by mouseshit? "The Princess and the Pea," and all that? Then there's the matter of the few dozen drinks. For all I know, this Muse could be another shirttail relation of Bad Choices, who still emails me from time to time, the skank.

I'm thinking of changing my address, but I'm having Second Thoughts, who emailed last night from the Murky Recess out on Highway 53. It's been awhile. Now I've got to get my belfry in order for Second Thoughts, I can entertain Change at a later date. All in Due Time, which is an outer ring suburb of... but that's a different story.