House of Mouse, Heart of Stone

Do you intend to haunt my door all night?" Mickey bellowed. “To linger in these halls like some widowed spirit?” The mouse sat with his back to the entrance, at a mahogany desk adorned with gilded brass accents.

Minnie gulped and entered the palatial study, the hem of her sheer peignoir negligee skimming the lush Savonnerie carpet. She clutched her elbows, as if her slender, rubber-hose arms could shield her from his ire.

“Our bed lies cold and barren,’ she whispered, blinking the moisture from her eyes. “Is it unbecoming for a wife to yearn for her husband’s warmth?”

“Unbecoming?” Mickey echoed, picking up his quill. “When have you ever been governed by anything, let alone matters of propriety?”

Once more, the tears welled. Minnie bit her tongue to keep the curses from spilling forth.

“If your bed is lacking warmth, call on Goofy or Pluto,” he continued, dipping the nib in an inkwell. “One dog is as good as another.” He set the pen to parchment. “For a woman like you.”

Minnie spun on her heels to flee. Yet from above the double doors, the grand portrait of a mustached man with gentle eyes gazed down. Her steps halted.

The study lay silent, save for the scribbling of the quill.

“You have borne your father’s burden well. There is not a country in this world that does not know the caress of your white glove. Yet, after all these years, your dreams, your desires, remain foreign to me. It is often said that a spouse is a mirror. Yet I have found mine painted as black as my arm.” She glanced down, a thin smile on her lips. “No, even darker than that.”

Minnie turned. The scribbling went on. If her words reached his rounded ears, he gave no indication.

“It is as if you are an empty vessel. A Grecian urn unfilled. A lockbox to which I was never given the key.” She scoffed to herself. “If such a key exists.” A bitter amusement.

The quill swooped across the page, unimpeded.

“Is there any love in your heart? For anything in this world?” She pressed a hand to her chest, gazing at her husband from across the yawning gulf. “If there is none for me, so be it. Though I have lived these years in deprivation, I have never known want. Your father’s coffers are as wide as any ocean, and reach to the depths of hell itself. Such breadth is matched only by your appetite for my misery and humiliation.” Her voice rose, quivering. “But if only I knew…that you loved anyone…anything at all..then I might…I might…”

Her sobs gave way to the scratching of the pen. In time, the hour struck. When at last the work was finished, he turned in his seat, and found her gone. Ω