They once were friends…
At least, that’s what the woman on the third floor believed. Her friend, from the fifth floor, was what you’d call a real beauty—or so she thought. She only ever descended to visit the “little gray mouse,” as she called her friend downstairs, to either boast or complain. Back in the day, they’d gone to school together, then both enrolled in the economics programme at university—though only the mouse had actually graduated, landing herself a modest job at the bank.
The beauty, meanwhile, had snagged herself a wealthy older husband in fifth year and dropped out. After the divorce, she’d walked away with a decent lump sum and a modest monthly allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid more just to be rid of her, but her solicitor hadn’t fought hard enough. Now she was alone, with money that vanished quickly given her expensive tastes. So, she was always on the hunt, and only visited the mouse to recount her victories—and defeats.
“All men are pigs,” she’d say, flipping through some glossy magazine—the only thing she ever read.
She even tried to coach her friend.
“You want to land a decent bloke? Read these.”
She’d lounge in her chair, wrapped in a scandalously short dressing gown, cleavage on full display. Her manicured hands and blood-red nails were a stark contrast to the mouse’s worn-out robe and work-roughened fingers—always scrubbing, cleaning, cooking, or running errands. Both women were single, childless, but while the mouse ached for marriage and a family, the beauty only craved admiration, money, and no responsibilities.
“All men are pigs,” she repeated, twirling a slim menthol cigarette between her fingers. “One’s bald, another’s short, and the last one—rich but stingy, can you believe it?”
She scoffed.
“He had some old banger of a car, a cottage in the countryside, and expected me to cook! Can you even picture me slaving over a stove or riding in that wreck? Ugh.”
The mouse sighed to herself.
“I’d take the bald one or the short one. I’d cook, I’d go to the countryside gladly.”
“Pigs,” the beauty concluded.
Now, here’s the thing—she always brought her cat downstairs with her. A scrawny, filthy thing, always tangled in cobwebs.
The mouse, meanwhile, had a lovely little tabby, also neutered—but that didn’t stop the tomcat from being hopelessly smitten. And the feeling was mutual.
“What? That witch didn’t feed you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” the tabby would ask.
“Us lads,” the tomcat would puff up, “can’t go complaining. So what if she doesn’t feed me? At least she doesn’t kick me out. And under the sofa’s alright. Bit dusty, but good for hiding. Hardly ever beats me—only when she’s in a mood.”
“She’s ever in a good mood?”
The tomcat would sigh, pressing against her. The tabby would pick cobwebs off him, licking his face clean until he purred. And just like that, curled up against her, he’d drift off.
“What on earth does your cat see in my mangy wreck? He doesn’t understand kindness—only kicks and curses,” the beauty sneered.
The mouse shuddered, slipping the tomcat bits of chicken. He’d eat, choking back tears. The tabby would sigh, licking her poor, pitiful sweetheart.
The mouse adored her own cat—spoiled her rotten with everything a feline heart could desire. But the tomcat? He only wanted two things: food and his beloved tabby.
So, this was their routine—meeting a few times a week. The mouse cooked, fed the beauty and her tomcat, even lent her money from her meagre salary. Money never repaid. The beauty thought she was doing the mouse a favour by taking it. And the mouse? Too meek to demand it back, too afraid of losing her only friend.
Now, one evening, the beauty burst in, eyes alight.
“I’ve got him! Tall, fit, not old—a multimillionaire! Owns a chain of supermarkets nationwide. Oh, I’ll bleed him dry this time. No cheap divorce settlement for me.”
The mouse forced a smile, sickened but silent.
Then, at the week’s end, her doorbell rang…
The beauty had bragged to her latest target about her “dowdy little friend” downstairs—planned to parade the contrast between them. Some women keep plain friends just to shine brighter.
In walked the beauty, arm in arm with a tall man in a sharp black suit. Silver at his temples, dark eyes, a face alive with every passing thought.
“What a handsome man,” the mouse thought, flushing.
“Look what George bought me!” The beauty flashed a necklace worth a luxury car.
The mouse ushered them to the table, serving up salads, starters, roast, soup. The man’s eyes lit up, face full of awe.
“George and I are off to the Riviera next month,” the beauty prattled.
“Can you cook like this?” George asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Ruins your nails and your hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
George visibly deflated. The beauty swiftly changed the subject, babbling about shopping trips and jewels. Boredom crept over his face until the mouse pointed out the cats—the tomcat, trailing his mistress as ever, now nuzzling the tabby.
“You filthy thing!” the beauty shrieked. “How dare you follow me without permission!”
She worked herself into a frenzy, screeching louder and louder.
George’s face twisted—first horror, then pity as the scrawny tomcat cowered, ears flat, under the torrent of abuse.
Then she kicked him—hard. The poor thing yowled, slamming into the wall.
George stood abruptly, face white.
“That’ll teach you!” she spat, turning to him with a snarl.
George spoke softly, deadly calm.
“You’re vile. Absolutely vile. Thank God I didn’t propose.” He crouched, stroking the trembling tomcat. “Come on, mate. You’re coming with me. Just us blokes from now on.”
“Go!” the tabby urged.
The tomcat lifted his head, hope dawning in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare!” the beauty screamed. “He’s mine!”
George looked at her like she was dirt.
“Try and stop me.”
He scooped up the tomcat and left.
“You saw that! What a monster!” the beauty ranted. “All men are pigs! Doesn’t matter—I’ll find someone better!”
She shouted after the departing limousine, tossed her head, and stormed off.
The mouse sank onto the sofa, her tabby curling beside her.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, stroking her. “He’ll have a good life now. Fed, cared for, loved. You should be happy for him.”
She petted the tabby, inexplicably tearful.
The next evening, the doorbell rang again.
George stood there, holding a pet carrier.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said. “He bashed his head against the door, howling. Couldn’t ignore that.”
He nodded at the tabby, already stretching toward the carrier.
“Mind if I let him out? Just for a bit. I’ll sit quietly—won’t be a bother. He really missed her.”
The mouse blushed.
“Come in,” she said. “No need to sit in the corner. I’ve got cake, snacks—you must be hungry.”
“God, yes,” George groaned. “Been running around all day, forgot to eat. You’re an angel.”
The mouse flushed again, tightening her faded robe.
They settled at the table, chatting warmly—and not just the humans.
“Well?” the tabby asked.
The tomcat was transformed—clean, fed, cobweb-free.
“Not a man’s place to complain,” he said grandly. “But—new towel, proper bed, and…”
He burst into tears.
“He let me sleep with him. In a clean bed. Petted me all night.”
The tabby licked his face as he sobbed.
“Look at them,” George marveled. “Like something out of a film. Mind if I come back tomorrow? Can’t keep them apart.”
The mouse blushed once more. George noticed—she wasn’t a mouse at all, really. Quite pretty, in fact. He grinned like a boy.
Butterflies fluttered in her chest. She couldn’t breathe.
They talked late into the night over tea and cake.
On the sofa, the tabby and tomcat slept, curled together.
What’s this story about? Nothing much. Just friends. Or maybe not friends.
Maybe about George, who turned out decent.
Maybe about real beauty, not the showy kind.
Maybe about a tomcat and a tabby.
Or maybe—just maybe—about love.
Who knows?
