greener grass II

Today the mouse stopped by the kitchen stool to "shoot the proverbial breeze" as he put it. He used words like "portfolio", and "'78 Riesling", and "sun-drenched sunday drives". I paid him only a cursory attention, content to admire the kitchen window's semi-transparent rendition of a man on a stool: hair disheveled, underwear stiff with last night's ejaculate. The gentle steam spilling up from the mouse's coffe mug finally interrupted my lobotomy stare. I remember when I used to drink coffee. I wish i had some now.