5:04am. I’m vaguely aware of a noise next to my head. I groggily open my eyes and let out a yelp. With the help of the street light filtering in through the sheer window hanging, I see none other than a little grey mouse on the shelf next to my head, and he’s trying to get at the last stroopwafel I mistakingly left there the night before, but it’s in plastic, so he’s having trouble and making a lot of noise while he’s at it.
At the sound of my yelp and the sight of my hands flailing wildly above my head, he Supermans it off the shelf onto the floor somewhere below my bed.
I sit bolt upright, sit there unmoving with my heart pounding in my ears for a long moment, and then, using as few fingers as possible, grap the cursed stroopwafel in it’s packaging. I sneak a peek under the bed. He’s no where to be seen. I sit there completely still for a few more long moments, synapses struggling to fire, trying to figure out what to do.
I can’t leave it there because he might come back for it, but I’m sure as heck not gonna eat it now that it has mouse cooties all over it, and there’s no way I’m getting out of that bed cuz he might come out from wherever he went to get me.
So in my middle-of-the-night state of mind, I open the window, take a quick look out onto the street below, then promptly let gravity take over. Plunk.
Now there’s the business of trying to get back to sleep any time soon. Yeah, right.
Thanks a lot, Mickey.