Two Friends
They had once been friends—still were, or so thought the woman from the third floor. Her friend, living above on the fifth, was what she considered a stunning beauty. Or rather, that’s how the beauty saw herself. She’d descend to visit the “little grey mouse,” as she privately nicknamed her downstairs friend, only to boast or complain about life. Long ago, they’d attended school together, even enrolled in the same Economics course at university—which the mouse dutifully finished before landing a steady job at a bank.
The beauty, however, married a wealthy older man in her fifth year and dropped out. After their divorce, she walked away with a lump sum and modest monthly allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid double to be rid of her, but her lawyer bungled it. Alone, with funds dwindling fast under her lavish tastes, she was forever hunting for her next conquest, only visiting the mouse to recount her triumphs and failures.
“All men are pigs,” she’d declare, flipping through another glossy magazine—her sole reading material. She’d lecture her friend, “Want a decent bloke? Read these.”
Dressed in a skimpy satin robe with a plunging neckline, her manicured hands and crimson nails stark against the mouse’s frayed cardigan and work-roughened fingers. Laundry, cleaning, cooking—the mouse did it all. Both were single, childless, yet the mouse yearned for family, while the beauty craved only admiration, cash, and zero demands.
“All men are pigs,” she repeated, twirling a menthol cigarette. “One’s bald, another’s short, and this last one’s loaded but stingy—can you imagine?” She scoffed. “An old car, a countryside cottage, and he expected me to cook!”
The mouse sighed inwardly, thinking, *I’d take the bald one or the short one. I’d cook. I’d love that cottage.*
“Pigs,” the beauty concluded.
Notably, she always brought her cat—filthy, scrawny, cobwebbed. The mouse’s own cat, sleek and adored, doted on the wretched tom despite his neutered state.
“What? That witch starved you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” she’d fuss, plucking cobwebs from his fur.
“We men don’t complain,” he’d rasp, pressing close. “She doesn’t kick me out. The sofa’s not so bad—spiders, sure, but good for hiding. She only hits me when she’s cross.”
“And when *isn’t* she?”
The tom sighed, melting into her licks, purring himself to sleep against her warmth.
“What does yours even see in that ragamuffin?” the beauty sneered. “He only learns from a thrashing.”
The mouse flinched, sliding the tom bits of chicken. He ate, choking back tears, while the beauty’s cat licked his matted face.
The mouse cherished her cat, giving her every comfort a feline could want. The tom? He dreamed only of food and his beloved.
So their visits continued weekly. The mouse cooked, fed the beauty and her cat, even lent cash from her meagre salary—never repaid. The beauty saw it as a favour. The mouse, terrified of losing her only friend, stayed silent.
Then one evening, the beauty burst in, eyes alight. “I’ve landed one! Tall, fit, not old—a multimillionaire! Supermarket chains nationwide. Oh, I’ll bleed him dry!”
The mouse forced a smile, nauseated. But by week’s end, the beauty returned—arm in arm with her prize.
“Meet my *pathetic* old friend,” she announced, aiming to contrast their worlds.
The man—silver-templed, sharp-eyed—entered. “What a striking man,” the mouse thought, flushing.
“George bought me *this*,” the beauty flaunted a necklace worth a luxury car.
The mouse served salads, roast, soup. George’s face lit up. “You can cook like this?”
“Ugh!” The beauty recoiled. “Ruins my nails and hair. Restaurants exist for a reason.”
George’s smile faded. Frantic, the beauty babbled about shopping trips until the mouse pointed to the cats—now entwined.
“You *vermin*!” the beauty shrieked at her cat. “How *dare* you follow me!” Her rage crescendoed—then she *kicked* him. The tom yowled, slamming into the wall.
George stood, horrified. “You *rotten* *—*” he breathed. “Thank God I never proposed.” Kneeling, he stroked the trembling tom. “Come with me. We’ll live as bachelors.”
“Go!” urged the beauty’s cat.
The tom blinked up, hope dawning.
“You *dare*—?” the beauty screeched.
George eyed her like dirt. “Try and stop me.” Cradling the tom, he left.
“Men are *pigs*!” she howled at his departing Bentley.
Alone, the mouse petted her heartbroken cat. “He’ll be loved now. Be happy for him.” Yet she wept.
Next evening, George returned—carrier in hand. “He smashed his head against the door, crying for *her*.” He nodded to the eager cat. “May they visit? I’ll stay quiet.”
The mouse blushed. “No need for corners. I’ve cake and snacks.”
“*Bless* you,” George groaned. “I’ve not eaten all day.”
Her cardigan gaped; she adjusted it, flushing deeper. Over tea, they talked endlessly.
On the sofa, the cats curled together.
“Tell me,” murmured the beauty’s cat.
The tom—clean, fed—shivered. “He… he let me sleep *on his bed*. In crisp sheets. *Petted* me all night.”
George watched, awed. “Like a film. May I come tomorrow? He shouldn’t lose this.”
The mouse reddened again. George suddenly saw her—*really* saw her—and grinned like a boy.
Her heart fluttered.
They talked till late. The cats slept, pressed close.
What’s this story about? Friends—or not.
Or George, who turned out decent.
Or beauty that isn’t skin-deep.
Or cats.
Or love.
Who knows?
