There was a clump of hair dragging off the back of my shoe.  A nasty tangled knot, like the ones you pull out of an old broom. I pealed it off with two fingers and held it up to the light.  There were problems in it.  Dust balls and fur and bits of paper.  The sunlight turned it into a mouse with a long tail and printed it on the far wall.

I didn’t want to keep the clump of hair, but it was too aggressive to throw away.  I didn’t trust it in the trash bin.  So I put it on a shelf.  I surrounded it with old books.  I picked books that I never paid any attention to, encyclopedias, translation dictionaries, heavy books that no one loves.

I didn’t know if the clump of hair would be safe there, but I left it anyway.  I checked on it whenever I walked by the bookshelf.  Sometimes, if I wasn’t busy, I picked it up and held it up to the light.  It was meaner each time.  More tangled and treacherous, but it always cast the same mouse shadow on the wall.

Before bed, I would talk to it, you know, just out of boredom.  I would tell it, “sleep well,” and “don’t wake me up before nine.”  I had to be up at nine because I liked to eat breakfast at that time.

Every morning when I woke up the first thing I’d do was walk over and look at it.  I’d blow morning breath on it and make noises to wake it up.  I wanted to show it who was boss.  Sometimes I threatened it.  I’d hold up a pair of scissors, or a kitchen knife and I’d yell, “you better keep quiet over there…or else.”

I’d sneak up on it and peak between those heavy books and see it lying there.  I don’t think it was afraid of me, not even when I made those threats.  It gave me a look one day and I had to stack more books around it.  It was thinking about escaping.

There was a nice pile of useless books around it after a few weeks, five or six books high.  I’d reach between and pick it by the tail.  It didn’t fuss when I picked it up, but its smell had grown rotten.  I pinched my nose and told it how bad it smelled.  I told it that I’d never smelled anything as foul and disrespectful.  I told it to take better care of itself…or else.

It didn’t listen.  I put water in my mouth from the sink and spat at it.  The clump of hair calmed down when I did that.  It flattened out and relaxed.  It was trying to make me drop my guard.  I knew what it was doing.  It couldn’t fool me.

Sometimes I thought about giving it a name, but you don’t name that sort of thing.  Names are for people and dogs and goldfish and pet guinea pigs – not for clumps of hair that you find on the back of your shoe.  If I needed to get its attention, I’d say something like, “Hey, Pal,” or “Listen up, stinky.”

It didn’t like that.  It got more gnarly and twisted.

In the afternoons, I’d take a few books off the shelf and let the sun hit it.  I liked seeing the mouse the sun made out of it on the wall.  I think it liked that too.  It would stare at its shadow until I put the books back up.  “That’s enough for you, you narcissist.” That’s what I’d tell it.

When I played loud music it danced and shook on the shelf.  It didn’t dance to slow music. It only moved to music with tempo and energy.  Even though I knew it was a vile little thing, I started to enjoy listening to music with it.

My girlfriend came over about once a week, but I never told her about the clump of hair I had caged up.  She never thought to look for it between those old, heavy books.  I kept a close eye on the clump when my girlfriend was around.

When we made love, that perverted clump of hair would peak between the books and watch us.  I didn’t like when it did that.  It made me uncomfortable.  To know I was naked and vulnerable and that this little tangled rodent was watching me.

I waited until my girlfriend left and I pulled it out from between the book and held it up.  I told it, “Don’t you ever watch me and my girlfriend while we’re making love.” 

It hissed at me and I dropped it back into its cell.  That made me angry.  I screamed and spat and made gestures as if I were going to squash it.  It turned its back on me.

The next time my girlfriend came over, I put more books around that hellish spiraled mess.  When we made love, I couldn’t help myself, I had to look over.  I wanted to know if it was watching.

It was.  So I stopped.  My girlfriend pulled at my neck and told me to keep going.  I couldn’t.  Not with that thing watching.  But I couldn’t tell her.  She wouldn’t understand.  I told her I wasn’t feeling well and we slept with our backs facing each other.  I kept my eyes on the clump of hair most of the night.

The next day, when my girlfriend left, I knew I had to do something.  I pulled the books off one by one and let them fall to the floor.  The clump of hair could see in my eyes that I was serious this time.  I picked it up by the tail and looked at it on the wall.  It wriggled and tried to get away from my grip.  I pinched tighter and held him up over my head. 

For the first time, I saw fear in it.  We both knew it was over.  I opened my mouth and let the tangled mouse land on my tongue.  I chewed hard and felt it grit between my teeth.  It didn’t move after that.  I swallowed it and rearranged my shelf of unloved books.