last meal

Labor Day 2005 couldn’t have been more beautiful, although I wonder if everyone feels just a twinge of regret with each cooling breeze reminding them that summer is losing its grip. I tried to come to terms with it all during a walk through Somerville listening to Animal Collective on my iPod. Maybe it was the band’s odd rhythmic um-ahs and dee-dees, or the reassuring familiarity of bright flowers and religious iconography juxtaposed against vinyl siding, but I felt an overhwelming calm, and even busloads of M.I.T. freshmen swarming my beloved aisles at Target couldn’t throw me from it.
On the way home, I remembered that my unwelcome four-legged roommate (or really, the descendants of one I trapped months ago) was back, and although I was still relaxed, I felt more like a murderer in those tender moments before a premeditated strike.
I knew that when I got home, I would have to set a trap, and kill that little fucker who, last night, got into my snack drawer and chewed a hole in and sampled each and every one of the packages. Just moments ago, I heard squeaking coming from — birds outside? a baby from across the street? No — from my oven, and I knew I could wait no longer. I cursed the fresh droppings and the fact that the mouse was getting the good stuff: Teddie Peanut Butter, which I enjoy on a nearly daily basis. I opened the jar and let the aroma waft around the kitchen, just a little bit. Not a bad last meal.

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