A Rat I Once Knew

I fell in love with the rat in my apartment. When I first saw him scurry from beneath the oven to underneath the couch I was sickened. He was the enemy, looking for the falafel crumbs that he knew I’d inevitably drop. I was insulted that he thought of me as so dirty and stupid, willing to let him live in my apartment rent free, eating my food while contributing nothing to the cost of Manhattan groceries. He was mocking me, running in front of my eyes so blatantly. I had the superintendent put in traps, and we were immediately at war. I fled the apartment for the night but was told that he traumatized my roommates, scurrying around their rooms, dragging in bacon to our vegetarian apartment. I was sick of men like this, having no regard for a woman’s desires or needs.

But as I worked from home in the days following, all alone in my apartment, he kept his distance. He never ventured into my room, and respected my peace when I went to make breakfast and lunch in the kitchen. He made no noise, honored my boundaries. And when I tried to lure him out with a piece of cheddar, he denied his desires, listening to judgment over his primal needs. A man of restraint. A man of intellect. A man of compassion. Despite my preconceived notions, he was thoughtful, and patient, and had more humility than I had assumed from the arrogance of our first meeting. We had fallen into the classic enemy-to-lovers trope.

We spent hours together. He would gnaw at crumbs under the coat rack, listening to me read out loud, shout obscenities at my computer screen during meetings, and chat on the phone with friends. We got to know each other. It was a romance like no other.

Eventually, my roommates called the exterminator and both the rat, and my feelings for him, faced a painful death. But I think of him often, remembering the rat of 5H who was more altruistic and evolved than all the men in New York City.