Second Fiddle                                                

I woke up with an uneasy feeling; something had happened.

The Stock Market — something had happened in the world while I was asleep and the stock market had somehow been affected. I quickly opened my CNBC app.

Nothing … only a photo of Sen. Elizabeth Warren looking like one of the Furies, resembling a mother with a poker up her ass scolding her child. Below, another photo, this one of our President wearing a shit-eating grin that told the world he had just gotten laid.

I scrolled farther down.

I shouldn’t’ve. I was met by Bernie, scowling, not the face anyone would choose to wake up to … okay, maybe his wife, but she has to.

I clicked on WhatsApp; perhaps my publisher had sent me a message, as yesterday I had emailed him the proof-read copy of my novel. Nothing.

I saw there was an unread email. An acceptance for one of my stories? The email looked promising: “We enjoyed reading your words ….” Not a good beginning. Words? Not ‘your story’? I continued reading: “While ….” I stopped. I didn’t have to read further; another ‘unfortunately’ letter.

I patted the bed covers, as Roma, my playful cat, usually slept with me. But she wasn’t on the bed, nor had she been all night. Where was she, and where had she been?

I jumped out of bed. Not a good idea. I have neuropathy causing vertigo. I stumbled, hit the night table beside my bed and knocked over my 18^th century blanc de Chine lamp which came crashing down on the hardwood floor. At that moment, I wished I had laid down softwood flooring as my 18^th century Chinese vase was now in pieces.

I needed to unwind and cheer up. I asked Alexa to play songs by Edith Piaf, my favorite singer. “Non, je ne regrette rien”. Exactly what I needed. It took me back more than 60 years, to lunch with Marc and Vava Chagall in Saint-Paul-de-Vence.  During lunch, Marc asked me, “Qu-est ce que tu veux pendant ta vie?” I didn’t hesitate to answer, “J’espère que je ne regretterai rien.”

While Piaf sang I began searching for Roma. I looked in my bathroom where I keep her litter box in the shower. She wasn’t there. I went to my study; she often lies beside my chair. No Roma. I next walked to the kitchen. In the morning she’ll sit there, waiting for the wet food I feed her. She wasn’t waiting … but I heard her little cry. I looked, and there she was, on the heated floor of the conservatory.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as I petted her.

“Meow,” she said.

“Do you want some food?”

“Meow.”

“No? What, then?” She looked away. I followed her eyes.

A mouse.

During the night I had become second-fiddle to a mouse in Roma’s life.

E.P. Lande, born in Montreal, has lived in the south of France and now, with his partner, in Vermont, writing and caring for more than 100 animals. Previously, as a Vice-Dean, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than three years ago, more than 100 his stories — many auto-fiction — and poems have found homes in publications on all continents except Antarctica. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net. His debut novel, “Aaron’s Odyssey”, a gay-romantic-psychological thriller, has recently been published in London.