the silence of the mice

verna does not go anywhere without the fifty-gallon bucket of mouse ears – fruits of her painstaking labor these past twenty years. she hums softly to herself – always god save the queen - and occasionally sifts through the bucket with a withered hand, not looking for anything, but merely luxuriating in the feel of ears against skin. 

fred claims to be appalled, but he has become numb to it as time goes by – like a highway patrolman who has just scraped his five hundredth corpse from the asphalt. 

verna has always held firmly to a catch and release policy. once there was a time when this caused fred a great deal of distress as he watched her stalk the grounds, clippers in hand. was their suffering greater this way? would death have been more merciful? he no longer troubles himself with these fine points. 

fred humors verna, but refuses to don the set of mouse ears she bought for him to wear during their intimate moments. everyone has their limits and there are boundaries fred will not cross.