One to comfort me, one for intelligent conversation, one for admiration. There is one for play, one for dinning, and one for work…in fact there is a blond, a ginger, and a brunette. No need for the cheese to complain that the mice flee, rather where is there a pan to slap some away.
The cheese: complicated, confused, the slight aroma of desperation combined with the spice of defensiveness. Semi-firm but perfect at any hour, this cheese pairs magnificently with white wine and low lit restaurants. Not to be taken lightly, it leaves some spice on your tongue.
Who then, are these mice? It is only possible to describe them in brief terms and abstractly because even as their traits seek adjectives, let us not give them too much importance…however, they may well be extremely so.
So again, who are these mice? They are the men that came to smell me at the cheese shop on the streets of Montmarte when I was the last slice. Id already been bitten and no wax to cover me seemed necessary, but all at once, it seems two mice came and ignored the state I was in just to pair me with their wine. Then they both took a piece and took it home with them, and in the carefullest of manners began to care for me as if I were brand new.
For one mouse, it was humor he believed would soften my covering, like magic in a Disney movie, each smile would lift me up to fresh, gourmet glory. He listened to my tales of ripe beginnings and stealthily nibbled at my crumbs. Daily he checked on me, daily I anticipated his presence. For another mouse, acknowledging my moldy edges was the first step towards nutty excellence. He left my to my own resourcefulness primarily, giving me long lags of disuse until he would summon me for pairings. He is kind and intelligent, his bites almost go unnoticed.
But most importantly is the last mouse, or shall we say the first mouse. It was he who first met me when I was brand new, a tasty hunk proudly standing in window, winking at passersby, tempting them. And I was successful because for many years I was the star…no more shall be said of my days of fame.
Then why are they blind? Well they have not seen what there is beneath or better yet, inside. The cheese is overall a simple choice, an easy one to choose for the spectator, but I am the cheese and this is what I know…
There have been too many bites taken, there has been far too much haste in this shop, and while I was again up for sale, it was inappropriate to do so.
The shelf life of cheese is long and luxurious when you consider that the delicacy is mold and bacteria and it is with age that the flavors become enticing. Experience and time makes it delicious for the buyer and easy for the one to travel.
Call me Cambozola…I am ill equipped to be dealing with one who makes me cheddar and the other who makes me Brie. Forget about the mice, they have been dealing with their lack of vision in any respect for as long as they know, but one being beyond the pirate, never allow the crumbs to be stolen. That is the easy way for one to go straight into the trash.