The Squirrel in the Room

Michael smoothed his tie for the third time, a nervous habit he'd developed exclusively for first dates. Sarah arrived, a vision in emerald green, and Michael’s anxiety eased. Over sparkling water and artisanal bread, the conversation flowed, light and charming. They discussed their favorite books, their travel aspirations, their shared disdain for people who chewed with their mouths open. Michael felt a flicker of hope. This might actually be *the one*.

Then came the inevitable "What do you do for fun?" question. Sarah’s eyes lit up. "Oh, Michael, I have a *passion*. It's a bit... niche." Michael braced himself for anything from competitive cheese rolling to interpretive dance. He was ready to be supportive. "I preserve animals," she beamed, oblivious to the small piece of sourdough Michael had just choked on.

"You mean, like, conservation?" he croaked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"No, silly! Like, *forever* preserve. I'm a taxidermist!" She leaned in conspiratorially. "Just last week, I finished a magnificent red squirrel. Found him by the roadside, bless his little heart. I repositioned him mid-leap, clutching a tiny acorn. It was a challenge getting the eyes just right – they have such expressive pupils, you know."

Michael stared at his pan-seared scallops, suddenly very aware of the intricate veins in the accompanying kale. He imagined the squirrel, mid-leap, perhaps right onto his dinner plate. "Fascinating," he managed, trying to sound genuinely interested rather than utterly terrified. "So, you, uh... stuff them?"

Sarah giggled. "Oh, Michael, we don't 'stuff' anymore! It's all very scientific now. Form-fitting armatures, precise measurements, artistry! You wouldn't believe the detail that goes into reconstructing a badger's facial muscles."

He would. Oh, he absolutely would. As Sarah launched into a detailed explanation of solvent-based degreasing, Michael found himself subconsciously checking the exit signs, wondering if he could gracefully feign a sudden, urgent need to, say, join a competitive cheese-rolling league. The squirrel, he realized, was very much still in the room, perched somewhere between his rapidly cooling scallops and his rapidly fading hope.