“I’ll be back soon,” she lied, when the short hand rested near the 11 and long hand hit the 8. 

“Be good!” she sung, as she raced out the door in a red rubber dress that pulled on her curves and made her butt look like a balloon holding its breath. The door slammed shut and the sound of her pretty heels clicked and tapped against the marble hallway, gradually disappearing into the evening. 

The long hand jumps onto the 9. Trying to catch sight of her leaving in the flashy red latex, I desperately dash to the window and look outside to the dancing lights at the bottom of the building. Red, blue, green, white lights: The sidewalk is alive like a pestered bees nest. The hum of the city crawls through an ajar window, barely wide enough for a scrawny mouse to squeeze its way in. City mice are big down among those lights, though. They’re never in search of a well fed trash bin or other meaty companions. Sometimes they captivate my attention, those big, scary rats, all the way down the street. They scamper under taxis, into the sewers beneath the lights, then up again, weaving through crowds. I can't say I’ve been too close to one of them before- thank goodness- but they’re always catching my eye. 

There she is. Darting out to the edge of the pavement, a gaggle of girls that resemble Barbie dolls duck into a cab one by one. Their platinum hair reflects off of a neon Coca Cola LED advertisement and up seven floors into the room. The taxi wastes no time and scurries off with a puff of exhaust before the door gets a chance to shut. I gaze after the tiny yellow taxi from the apartment window as it gets eaten whole by a cluster of lights. It makes a turn around the corner, leaving my sight and the feeling of boredom recurs- just as it does whenever she leaves.

The sky’s color fades as if it’s shutting its eyes for a nap and the apartment gets all dark and sleepy. The hands slowly lap around the clock as the lights below get brighter and brighter. These nights are especially awful because she leaves me this nasty chicken loaf with bacon, cheese and an odor stronger than graphene. After that I just lay and wait for her return, watching the hands move and the night get older. 

I jump off the squeaky leather sofa and away from the window, accepting my fate of another night without her. The big hand rests slightly past the 11, while the short hand is on the 6 and the dancing lights from the city start to samba their way up the building walls. The hands still tick as my stomach starts to bubble and whine, so I walk to the kitchen to find the distasteful meal she left out. My feet patter around the corner onto the marble tiles like happy raindrops along the kitchen floor as I spot the chicken loaf sprawled on its white ceramic plate. An aroma of stew and greasy dumpster trash engulfs the room and my equable heart skips a beat. Hovering above the plate, a city mouse with freshly damp fur the color of molding clay wriggles its tongue against the demolished loaf. A real live rat. The kind I fear to encounter. The kind that rummages through trash and wrestles with its infested friends. There’s a real live city mouse in apartment 713... and she’s still not home.

 It swags it’s fat rear aggressively back and forth as it scarfs down the food, wheezing like a bat. I take a step back, but a rush of grit sinks into my feet, stopping me from running away. Its mangled, ugly head whips around and our eyes hook without a blink. The two red beads on either size of his whiskers gleaming like the lights in the city in which he came from glare at my petrified soul as he releases a toothy snarl and another wheezing growl. My nails press against the tiles and I feel the same grin decorate my face like war paint.

 “Be good!” Her voice rings in my head as I try to decide if by “be good” she meant “get any rats that decide to stop by out of the apartment.”  

As it stands there, rocking back on two feet and displaying a raggedy belly, my subconscious suddenly lunges me forward. I dart toward the white ceramic platter like a Barbie on the street corner. Startled, the city mouse dashes past me and around the corner, slipping under the sofa and pressing against the wall. It’s trapped. With slow, steady steps and my nose glued to the floor, our eyes hook once more beneath the couch cushions. Tick. The long hand hits the 12 and the short hand covers the 2. She’s out late tonight. 

Suddenly, that ol’ rat sprints against the wall, attempting an escape. It scrambles up the arm of the couch and leaps onto the window with its broken, dirty nails tapping against the sill. Its rear end squeezes through the thinly open window with a “pop” as if it were a cork and tonight was New Year’s Eve. I desperately dash to the window and look outside to the dancing lights at the bottom of the building, searching for the little mouse I chased to its death. But scurrying down the rain gutter and into the city lights, there he is. My heart is a bongo, beating with pride as I catch my breath and my tongue flops out. 

“Clomp... clomp” The distant sound of heels being kicked off spins me in a circle as joy fills my bones like a coastal breeze. I leap off of the leather sofa as my tail whips back and forth and the long hand strikes the 1. “Jack, I’m home!” she verifies. “ Were you a good boy?”