The little mouse comes out to test the waters, imperceptible darts from under the stove, feet so light you cannot hear them but my peripheral vision has been honed by years of New York tenement living, I know it before I know it. We make plans for drinks, he slides that sliver of hope into his intonation and you wonder if you'll ever remember what that feels like when it vibrates against your vocal cords. I turn around and book a cabin in the woods instead. There's no wi-fi, the host writes, but sometimes if you go back to the road there's one bar of cell service.
I set a crown of mouse traps around the apartment. Bait them with a light at the end of the tunnel.
Turn around and wait
for morning.
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