Personifying the Sun
"I feel like a ... mouse on a wheel," he said, blinking, rubbing his eyes.
"Don't."
"What?" He blinked. Frowned. Looked to her.
"Don't rub your eyes," she whispered. "It'll only irritate them more."
Still wearing the frown, Field shook his head. "That's ... whatever." He took a breath. Whiskers twitching. Saying, "I don't know."
"Well ... "
"Well, I ruined our evening."
The rabbit bit her lip. Tilting her head a bit. "No ... you just ... you've had a bad day."
"Well, I shouldn't have."
"Well, you did."
"No, it's ... not the day. It's me. I had a bad ... me." He thought that one over. Realized it made no sense, but ... " ... no, but, Aria, my ... " A sigh. "My eyes hurt."
"I know," she whispered, sitting on the other end of the couch.
Another sigh. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know what happened."
"You had a bad day," she repeated for him.
"No, it's ... "
"Field." She sighed. Patiently (or not so patiently) took a breath of her own.
The mouse yawned, eyes watering, aching.
"Field," she said again, swallowing, clearing her throat. It was cool out. The chill was finally here. "Your problem ... "
"Don't you mean problems?" he interrupted. "Plural?"
"Right now," she emphasized, "your problem is that ... you're demanding, of yourself, perfection. You're wanting to be perfect."
"Well ... "
"No, but you are ... trying to be. And you can't. You can't be."
"That's ridiculous. I'm not ... who cares. I know I'm not perfect."
"No, but you're a perfectionist. So, even if you know you're not perfect, you unconsciously hound yourself to be. And when your time isn't utilized to perfect measure, and when your feelings aren't expressed in perfect ease, and ... you get it? You get the point?"
"No," he whispered.
"I think you do," she whispered back.
Their gazes were on each other. And Field was the first to break the eye contact. As he often was. And as he always did ... when he was feeling low about himself. When his confidence left, he couldn't make eye contact to save his life. He couldn't ... do anything. He just caved in on himself. Inverted.
And she wasn't going to let that happen. Not this time. Not again. She cared about him too much. Loved him ... too much.
So, the rabbit scooted a bit closer to him. Exhaled. Licked her dry lips. And said, slowly, "Field ... you do know, right, that ... you have forgiveness?
Salvation? You've been redeemed? You don't have to be perfect, because you've acknowledged that you're not ... "
"No, but I can try," was his reply. "To be. I can try ... to be."
"You're just being stubborn now," she whispered wearily.
"Am not."
She smiled. A very weak, very strained smile, but ... smiled. And sighed. "Alright," she said, shrugging. "Say what you want."
"I'm just saying ... "
"Just saying?"
"Am not."
"Not stubborn? Huh? Cause ... well, you're stubbornly wrong on that one."
"Cause you're never stubborn?"
"We're both stubborn. How's that?"
"An even match," he said (after a pause), leaning back. Into the couch cushions.
She giggled. "Mm ... "
It was 11:18 PM.
"You okay?" she whispered.
"Shouldn't have had ... three bottles of that stuff."
"No, it wasn't that you had three bottles. It was that you had them in less than an hour's span."
"You should've stopped me," he whispered, head hurting. Eyes ... so tired. So ... whatever. Dry. Heavy.
"I tried. You told me you could handle it."
"And you listened to me?" he said, tilting his head. Eyes closed. Rubbing his eyes again.
She reached for his paws. Pulled them away from his eyes. "I wanted you to learn a lesson." She squeezed both his paws. Put them in hers. "Have you?"
"That ... alcohol doesn't ... dull my pain. It just," he said, clearing his dry throat, "dulls me."
"Something like that. Or something like," she continued, "you being able to relax and escape ... through me. Through lots of things. Your writing. Your faith. Me. Through something that will give you purity and continence."
"Continence," Field said, the word heavy on his tongue. "What ... what's that ... "
"Self-restraint."
"You think I need self-restraint?" He met her eyes again. Squinting.
"I think you feel too much. You allow yourself ... to feel too much. You have anxiety problems, you have ... "
"Problems," he whispered for her. "Lots of problems."
"Yes." She nodded slowly. "Yes, and you overwhelm yourself. You try to deal with it all at once. Try to think it down. Matching your will ... to your world. Trying to be perfect. And ... it doesn't work. You need to realize that. Need to slow down. Need to breathe. You need purity," she said, "to be clean ... to beget confidence. Self-worth. And continence," she told him, "to keep yourself from explaining it all away."
"Explaining it all," he whispered, echoing her, "away." Wondering what she meant by that. Not asking, cause ... he knew she had an answer. And knew it was probably right. And right now, he really didn't wanna hear it. He really didn't want to have his weaknesses exposed in such a ...
" ... shivery light."
Field blinked. "What?" He frowned.
"The light. The light coming from the moon," she said, nodding at the window. The full moon visible through the glass of the window. "It's a shivery light."
Field strained. Peering. Grey-blue eyes squinting through the lenses of his glasses. "Yeah," he whispered. "Yeah, it is."
And Field, eyes lingering, saw the light. Saw the pre-Thanksgiving moon. Some kind of too-late-for-harvest moon. The light of the moon, he had come to realize, was different every night. Like his faith. It was like shifting sand. It changed with every wave, but it held ... but only because he stood on Grace. Only because he was burrowed in It's sacrifice. And Field blinked. Blinked. And squeaked from the complexity of it all. Squeaked at his own limits. Squeaked.
She smiled, watching him furrow his brow, squint his features. Whiskers twitching, twitching. Ears at their swivel-swivel. She smiled and said, "Can you see him?"
"Who? God?"
"Well, I was gonna say ... the mouse in the moon."
Field laughed lightly and leaned back, shaking his head. "No," he said, smiling now. "No, I can't."
"You're not looking hard enough."
"No?" he challenged.
"No," she whispered.
Their eyes on each other.
And she asked, "Well, if you can't see the mouse in the moon, can you ... "
"See Him?" A pause. "Yes," was the whisper.
She nodded quietly.
"Like a reflection. Creator reflected in what He creates ... in ... everything," said Field's meandering voice. Which trailed to a momentary quit.
Her ears flicked absently.
Field bit his lip, smiling, and ... scooted up next to her. No longer wanting the distance. His pity party having petered out. And he nestled up to her. And opened his mouth to speak. And shut it. And ... simply leaned against her.
"It's alright," she whispered.
He shook his head slowly, sprawled against her ... one of her paws running over his head. "No ... "
"It is. Just ... hold on, okay? Hang on. Stay gold. Have faith."
"I do," he whispered.
"I know, but ... you struggle as you do, and ... "
"Well, you've said it yourself, you know. Struggle is necessary. You know that."
"But not to the degree, I fear, that ... you feel it. And ... I worry. I ... I can pull you out. I pulled you out, maybe, this time. Maybe I helped."
"You did. You always do."
"But one of these days, I might fail. I might not be able to cheer you. Might not be able to ... pull you up."
"As long as you extend your paw ... I'll reach for it," he whispered to her. Without a hesitation. The hues of his confidence seeping back into the color of his voice. Just being up against her. Her warmth. And how she smelled, faintly, of peppermint. And ... how she cared. How she pursued him. How she was always so bright and stable. Always so wise. How she seemed to be his counterpoint. His medicine.
She closed her eyes ... gave him a kiss to the back of the neck. Soft. To the fur. Breathing in deeply, slowly.
Field closed his hurting eyes. "When did my heart get so afraid to live?" he asked her. Voice frail again. "When did it get so hard to live?"
"When you were born," she said.
He smiled lightly, eyes still closed, twisting a bit ... so that his nose was against her neck now. Breathing. "That's ... not the answer I was hoping for."
"It's the truth, though."
"Yeah," he whispered.
She breathed. Stroked his fur. Paw running up and down his side.
"Aria," he breathed.
"Yes?" she breathed back.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asked, voice barely audible.
"For you having to come ... rescue me from myself. All the time, you ... help me fight my demons. And I feel that, in return, all I can do is ... not enough for you. You deserve more."
"Your love," she said, "is what you give. And I honestly ... that's what I want. It's everything."
"You deserve more," he said, swallowing. Sniffling a bit.
She shushed him. "I know you think, inside, that ... you're boring, you're unattractive, you're too thin, too shy ... I know you think you don't deserve the light of day. But ... you do. And I want you. And don't ask me to analyze that. Because ... as I said, it's ... too easy to explain these things away. To turn them into sciences. But these things ... these are extensions of faith. You just ... believe it. Believe me," she said, "when I say I love you, and when I say that, no, you are not a burden to me. And you will not be. No matter the strains, no matter the struggles, you are worth it."
The mouse, eyes closed, breathed. Whispered shakily, "Why?"
"Believe it."
He nodded quietly.
"Believe it, because ... I do. And why? Because you ... are you. And you are here, and ... I want to."
Field exhaled. Her paw caressing his cheek. "It's just ... I can't walk on water. And, if I chase you, I might drown, so ... you know, don't ... " His voice faltered. "Don't swim away from me. Don't leave ... "
"I won't," she whispered.
He smiled shyly. Wearily. "Mm. Anyway, not much water here ... to make a swimming sort of getaway."
"Well, I'll just hitch a ride to Speedway ... swipe an Indy car. That should do."
A light laugh. "Don't think those are all-terrain, though. You might have to go off the beaten path, cause ... if you made any sort of daring, daylight escape, I would be on your tail so fast ...."
Her turn to laugh. "Yeah ... " And another laugh. "I'm sorry. That was ... I know you didn't mean it that way, but ... "
"What?" he asked innocently. Not understanding.
"That was a bit of a double-entendre there. If I made an escape, you would be on my tail."
"No, it's not ... "
"I'm saying ... "
"Well, now that I know what's on your mind," he accused, amused. Playfully batting a paw at one of her long, thin ears.
She giggled.
He chuckled, and he bit his lip. Whiskers twitching. Thin, pink tail, long and silky-bare, lazily trailed to the carpet.
Her own tail, a bob of white, puffy fur ... was motionless. Aside from an occasional, tiny twitch.
They lay together. Against each other. Mutually leaning. Being each other's support.
And, for a span of minutes, neither said a word.
They just breathed.
They just were.
Like islands floating free. Out where hope remained.
"Darling," Field finally said, breaking the quiet. Which had become like a spell. Washed in the milk of the moon. Washed in the chill of the night. Washed in this pale, pale light.
"Yeah?" she whispered back. Her eyes were closed. And she was drowsy.
"I love you," he said. Was all he said. Voice wispy. Wandering ... into some dreamy, dozy state.
Her arms slithered round him ...
... and he nuzzled closer to her, taking her paws in his.
"Love you, too," she replied, the words slow. Hazy.
And rabbit and mouse fell asleep on the couch. Together. Under the eyes of God. Ready for another day.
And Field's last thought, before he faded away, was that ... he wondered if he could send a letter to the sun. Urging it to sweep down early. And if the letter would burn up in the sun's paws before it could open it. And why he was personifying the sun ... in the first place.
The mouse smiled and squeaked softly, softly. Snuggled to his mate.
And found some rest.