In “The Squirrel and the Chipmunk,” a pair of star-crossed lovers is separated by prejudiced family members.
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The squirrel and the chipmunk had been dating for
two weeks when they ran out of things to talk about.
Acorns, parasites, the inevitable approach of
autumn: these subjects had been covered within
their first hour, and so breathlessly their faces had
flushed. Twice they had held long conversations
about dogs, each declaring an across-the-board
hatred of them and speculating on what life might be
like were someone to put a bowl of food in front of
them two times a day. “They’re spoiled rotten is what
it comes down to,” the chipmunk had said, and the
squirrel had placed his paw over hers, saying,
“That’s it exactly. Finally, someone who really gets it.”
Friends had warned them that their romance could
not possibly work out, and such moments convinced
them that the skeptics were not just wrong but
jealous. “They’ll never have what we do,” the squirrel
would say, and then the two of them would sit quietly,
hoping for a flash flood or a rifle report—something,
anything, that might generate a conversation.
They were out one night at a little bar run by a
couple of owls when, following a long silence, the
squirrel slapped his palm against the tabletop. “You
know what I like?” he said. “I like jazz.”
“I didn’t know that,” the chipmunk said. “My
goodness, jazz!” She had no idea what jazz was but
worried that asking would make her sound stupid.
“What kind, exactly?” she asked, hoping his answer
might narrow things down a bit.
“Well, all kinds, really,” he told her. “Especially the
earlier stuff.”
“Me too,” she said, and when he asked her why,
she told him that the later stuff was just too late for
her tastes. “Almost like it was overripe or something.
You know what I mean?”
Then, for the third time since she had known him,
the squirrel reached across the table and took her
paw.
