**Two Friends**
They used to be friends… Or at least, that’s what the woman on the third floor thought. Her friend from the fifth floor was a stunner—or so she believed. She’d descend to visit the “grey mouse,” as she called her plain little friend downstairs, only to brag or complain. Once, they’d been schoolmates, then studied economics together at university. The mouse graduated and landed a steady job at a bank.
The beauty, meanwhile, married a wealthy older man in her fifth year and dropped out. After the divorce, she got a tidy sum and a modest allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid more to be rid of her, but her solicitor botched it. Left alone, her money vanished fast—she had expensive tastes. So, she was forever hunting, visiting the mouse only to recount her triumphs and failures.
*”All men are pigs,”* she’d sigh, flipping through a glossy magazine—her only reading. *”Want to snag a decent bloke? Read these.”*
She lounged in a skimpy silk robe, cleavage on display, manicured hands and blood-red nails a stark contrast to the mouse’s threadbare dressing gown and work-rough fingers. Both were single, childless—but while the mouse dreamed of family, the beauty craved only admiration, money, and no demands.
*”Pigs, all of them,”* she repeated, twirling a menthol cigarette. *”One’s bald, another’s short, the third’s loaded but tight-fisted. Can you imagine? He drives an old car, has a cottage in the Cotswolds, and expected me to cook!”* She laughed. *”Me, in some rust bucket or slaving over a stove? Ugh!”*
The mouse sighed inwardly: *I’d take the bald one or the short one. I’d cook. I’d love that cottage.*
*”Pigs,”* the beauty declared.
Now, mind you, she always brought her cat—a filthy, scrawny thing, perpetually dusted in cobwebs. The mouse had a sweet little tabby, also neutered, though that didn’t stop the tomcat from adoring her.
*”What? That cow forgot to feed you again? Shoved you under the sofa?”* the tabby would ask.
*”A gentleman doesn’t complain,”* the tom would puff. *”At least she doesn’t throw me out. Cobwebs aren’t so bad—good hiding spot. And she hardly ever hits me. Only when she’s cross.”*
*”Is she ever not cross?”*
The tom would nuzzle close, and the tabby would groom his matted fur until he purred himself to sleep.
*”What does your cat see in that wreck?”* the beauty sneered. *”He only understands a kick or a clout.”*
The mouse would flinch and slip the tom bits of chicken. He’d eat, choking back tears, while the tabby licked his sorry face.
The mouse adored her cat—gave her everything a feline heart could desire. The tom? He only wanted two things: a full belly and his beloved tabby.
So they met weekly. The mouse cooked, fed the beauty and her cat, even lent money from her meagre salary—loans never repaid. The beauty saw it as a favour. The mouse couldn’t argue. She feared losing her only friend.
Then one evening, the beauty burst in, eyes alight. *”I’ve hooked one! Tall, fit, not old—a multimillionaire! Owns a chain of supermarkets nationwide. Oh, I’ll squeeze him dry. No paltry divorce for me!”*
The mouse forced a smile, though it sickened her. But by week’s end, her doorbell rang…
The beauty had spun tales of her “drab, frumpy” friend downstairs, and now she paraded in, arm-in-arm with her besuited beau—silver at the temples, dark-eyed, his expressive face betraying every thought.
*”What a handsome man,”* the mouse thought, blushing.
*”Look what George bought me!”* The beauty flashed a diamond necklace worth a luxury car.
The mouse served dinner—salads, roasts, soup. George’s eyes lit up. *”Can you cook like this?”* he asked the beauty.
*”Ugh! Cooking ruins your nails and hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”*
George’s face fell. The beauty prattled on about shopping sprees until the mouse pointed to the cats, curled together. The tom had followed her down, as always.
*”You filthy brute!”* the beauty shrieked, working herself into a frenzy. *”How dare you follow me!”*
George watched, horrified, as the cowering tom pressed his ears flat.
Then she kicked him. Hard.
George stood abruptly. *”You vile woman. Thank God I never proposed.”* He crouched, stroking the trembling cat. *”Come with me, lad. I live alone. We’ll manage, just us men.”*
*”Go!”* urged the tabby.
The tom lifted his head, hope in his eyes.
*”Don’t you dare!”* the beauty screeched.
George fixed her with a look. *”Try and stop me.”* He carried the tom out.
*”Did you see that? Men are all swine!”* she yelled after the departing Bentley. *”I’ll find someone better!”*
The mouse sat with her tabby, stroking her. *”Don’t fret. He’ll be cared for now. Fed, loved. Be happy for him.”* She wept inexplicably.
Next evening, the doorbell rang. George stood there with a pet carrier. *”He bashed his head against the door, crying for her. I couldn’t bear it.”*
The tabby stretched toward the carrier.
*”Mind if I let him out? I’ll sit quietly.”*
The mouse flushed. *”Don’t sit in the corner. I’ve cake and sandwiches.”*
*”Oh!”* George groaned. *”I’ve been run ragged—forgot to eat.”*
She blushed again, tightening her faded dressing gown. Soon, they were chatting over tea.
Meanwhile, the tabby nuzzled the tom—now clean, well-fed, cobweb-free. *”Well?”*
*”A gentleman doesn’t complain… but he wrapped me in a towel. And—”* The tom burst into tears. *”He let me sleep on his bed. In clean sheets. Petted me all night.”*
The tabby licked his face as George watched, enchanted. *”Like a film! If you don’t mind, I’ll come tomorrow. He shouldn’t lose this.”*
The mouse blushed once more. George suddenly saw her—not a mouse at all, but lovely. He grinned, boyish, his face alight.
Her heart fluttered.
They talked late into the night. On the sofa, the cats slept, intertwined.
What’s this story about? Friends? Or not friends.
Perhaps George, who turned out decent.
Or real beauty, not the plastered-on kind.
The cats, certainly.
Or love.
Who knows?
