the grass is greener

The mouse darted across the linoleum and vanished into the subflooring. From my kitchen stool i could see the soft glow of candlelight illuminating his entrance, gently flickering in the stirring drafts generated by his forced air heating unit. Barely audible was the rise and fall of his guests' dinner conversation above the spinning 45s of pre-Korean War honky tonk and the occasional clink of fine stemware as toasts were bantered back and forth at a near-dizzying pace. None of this escaped my attention from my kitchen perch. I was alone, clad solely in underwear, eating corn chips. Contemplating masturbation. Were the power turned on, the television would surely be snowing. I hate that mouse.