Home.

Chris slid the deadbolt home and put his hands right back in his jeans pockets. He'd been very careful to leave them there the whole way home. He walked over to the bar between the kitchen and the living room, slowly took off his jean jacket and threw it down on the counter. From the thunk as it hit the counter he could tell the pockets weren't empty.

He flicked one of the switches on the wall and the living room light came on behind him. He leaned on the counter, looking down at the heap of denim, and his shadow stretched into the kitchen and half-way up the fridge. It looked long and thin.

I wonder if I'm as gaunt as that shadow looks. Still can't sleep well, no matter how tired I am.

He stared down at the heap of denim. They'd been empty when he left. He'd checked them five times, at least, before going out the apartment door, down three floors in the elevator, out the front and around the block twice before coming back in and up by the stairs.

A thunk. A thunk and a jingle to be honest..

He'd ignored the old beggar and his pet on the corner, twice, nodded once at the old woman at the flower stall, not talked to anyone the whole time, barely even made eye contact with anyone. And, even so, it sounded like his pockets were loaded with loot.

Might as well find out now. Couldn't be any worse than the Starbuck's Grande Latte that was sloshing around in the backpack yesterday.

He reached into the right hand pocket and came out with several of those little green water picks that you use for individual roses. One of them still had water in it and a bead was forming at the little hole in the cap. He rooted around some more and came out with a single petal from a yellow rose. Crushed, but fresh.

Turning the jacket over he contemplated the left side pocket. It was lumpy. Sticking half out of it he recognized one of the fake brass knockers that the building used on the apartment doors. Pulling it out he saw the number 318. Two doors down, the cute brunette. Seeing it again, he remembered having noticed that it was loose when he was just in the hallway.

The pocket was still lumpy. Next, out came a crumpled Dixie Cup half-filled with change and one old button. It looked suspiciously like the one that old George on the corner, was that his name, had been shaking hopefully at him.

Now I've gone and nicked an old beggars change money. What in the hell is wrong with me.

Chris's head rolled back as he hollered at the ceiling, "I kept my hands in my damn pockets the whole time. How is this happening?!?"

He collapsed on the counter, head cradled in his hands. For a few moments he just savored the darkness, trying to rest his eyes. " I really, really need to sleep. Just sleep," he said, picking himself up.

As he opened his eyes, he did not notice that almost all the lights in the apartment were now on. "Old George can surely wait until morning for his money…"

Chris picked up his jacket and he heard a squeak. Frowning, he opened it up and put his hand tentatively into the inside breast pocket.

And quickly yanked it back out with a yell. He stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth, hopping on one foot and cursing. Then, slowly, he pulled back the edge of the pocket and looked down at the tiny dark eyes of a little white mouse.