skymaus

That’s what her license plate says, but in all caps.

Everybody has a pet name and hers is maus.

I never ask her about her german pet name, even though it’s on her license plate. I’d rather not go there. Things are hyped  up as it is. There’s no need to galvanize any more energy to the fact by probing into something as privy as a pet name. With anybody else, it would mean nothing, but it’s different with sky, because she dresses in stockings and miniskirts in the snow.

“In other words,” I go, “she’s unparagoned.”

And my dentist goes, “She sounds high-maintenance.”

“Anyway,” I go, “she’s married.”

And my dentist goes, “Her husband must be exhausted.”

We embrace goodbye, before I hand her the bag of Ketchup Garden, and she gets inside her car. The headlights flash and the window rolls down, and sky goes, “If I don’t hear back from you by christmas, then merry christmas.”

“And if I don’t hear back from you by christmas,” I go, “then merry christmas.”

And she pulls ahead, turning away her license plate, pixelating into the night.

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