by Christine Stoddard

Created on: July 11, 2009

"Salt"

Joanne sank into her green-gray armchair and pulled the daily crossword puzzle into her lap. Surprisingly she hadn't tripped on a plastic tow-truck or a Lego leg on the way there. Joanne had just returned from another eight-hour day of talking to bank customers she secretly hated in the typical 9-to-5 worker's way. She began by removing her wool blazer and kicking off the shoes that perpetually pinched her pinkie toes as soon as she opened the door to the sound of Sesame Street blaring throughout the house. It was time to change the channel and relax, maybe catch some "Judge Judy" so she could make fun of stupid people to up the ol' self-esteem. Groping for the remote and reading clues about "church recesses" and "parakeet perhaps" at the same time, hunger suddenly hit her. She thought she had nabbed enough cheese cubes and carrot sticks at the weekly company meeting, but apparently not. Joanne set the paper down and begrudgingly pushed herself up from her chair. Then she walked barefoot to the kitchen.

The kitchen tile was colder against her feet than Joanne had hoped. In fact, it was Arctic cold. She gritted her teeth and tip-toed over to the cabinets at the far end of the room, desperately trying to make as little contact with the freezing floor as possible. Finally, she arrived to her destination. But instead of lunging for a box of sinful snacks, Joanne stopped. She did not stop out of guilt that she was violating everything Jenny Craig had ever taught her, nor did she stop because she suspected her husband was spying on her so he could chastise her later. Joanne had told Jenny Craig and her husband to go to H-E-double hockey sticks about her eating habits long ago. No, Joanne stopped, poised on her tiptoes, because she noticed several orange Cheese-It crumbs on her otherwise spotless kitchen counter. The sight so astonished the neat freak that she jumped with fright, which brought her feet completely down to the floor.

"Ooh!" she cried. Joanne hopped onto her tip-toes again and immediately opened the kitchen cabinet doors. Bank worker became P.I. as she held her breath for fear of sniffing up a stray whisker. Joanne began inspecting for other evidence of mice by lifting this and that, but grew increasingly confused-brow furrowed, lips twisted downward-when her search yield nothing, not even the tiniest nugget of dark poo.

"I guess I'm dealing with constipated mice," she muttered to herself and smiled awkwardly. Joanne shrugged

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