We have a mouse.
I wander downstairs in my boxers, bleary and tired, and into the kitchen. Pieces of carpet fluff stick to my bare feet. I scratch my head and yawn.
A rustling from the bin.
“You okay in there, buddy?” I ask.
The rustling stops. A pause.
“…’es,” comes the muffled reply.
“Cool,” I say. I pour myself a glass of cold orange juice and drink it down. I wash the glass, and try to rub the sleep out of my eyes.
“Gonna take a shower, buddy,” I say.
“…’kay.”
I pad toward the bathroom.
It’s quiet for a moment.
The rustling starts again.
