At the Sweet and Tart Cafe a waitress accidentally stepped on a little white mouse beside our table. The mouse had the most horrible expression on its face. In slow convulsions it tried to will itself back to life— a life insignificant by our standards.

 

Steven wanted to leave because he couldn’t stomach the idea of mice running around the café. I wanted to leave because I couldn’t stomach the mouse’s expression as it lay there with its last measure of strength trying to will itself back to life, clinging on desperately.

 

‘The passion of all living things to live,’ I thought.

 

A waiter walked over with a broom and dust pan and swept the mouse away.

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