The mouse in our house
The arrival of the mouse jeopardized the carefree space we?d so deliberately cultivated I would have been far more troubled by the mouse in our house if I?d been able to see it. This was a strange year, though, the first after graduating college, made stranger by the fact that I?d contracted a rare allergy to my contact lenses and was dropping steroids into my eyes in an effort to stave off surgery. My ophthalmologist had warned me that I might see stray blurs streaking across my vision. This one, grayish and darting along our baseboard, was just like the rest.
Except my best friend Emily was pointing at it. ?I think,? she said, ?we have a house mouse.?
This should not have taken us by surprise: The house was technically an attic. It was in the Fox Point neighborhood of Providence, Rhode Island, and the specialty doughnut store hadn?t yet gone up a block away, which is the only reason Emily and I were able to lease the space at all. I was serving with AmeriCorps, earning little, and Emily was starting medical school, earning nothing. Our landlord was a jovial Russian guy with a limp who we won over by vowing never to throw a party. I remember spinning around the living room, which was also the dining room, which was debatably also the kitchen, when we moved in. In this happy little attic, we?d make a home. To everyone except we who lived there, our house was a joke. The walls were either green-yellow or yellow-green. The floors were so uneven that a dropped tube of c...
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