I was drawn to his checkerboard hair: half-leopard/ half-Mohair. Surly, cheeky, sarcasm oozed from his lips. He'd call me Farrah to get a rise. I pretended I didn't like it, but any attention was better than none.
When he called me a pussy, I punched him. So hard it hurt my hand.
How I ended up in his bed seemed an entire life in one smooshed week. His two cats, RatBoy and Martha were clueless, too.
His skull was nearly perfect, like a newborn, the way his ears parenthesized his face perfectly. Utter dome-dom.
It all started when he bought my leopard nightie.
After he'd score the occasional night shift, I'd pace, roll across the rug, clawing air. I'd spit at RatBoy and Martha. They'd cower, growling under the sofa.
I'd lick my entire body, starting with my hands, then head to toe, just as they did.
Eventually I became one, slept all day, twitching by night. Between naps, I'd sit at the picture window, track flights of birds.
Lure them to our feeders. Fatten them up.
All rights reserved.
This first aired in the wonderful 52/250, one of my favorite writing experiences. Thanks Michelle Elvy, John Wentworth Chapman, and Walter Bjorkman:
Meg Tuite, fiction editor extra-ordiniare at Connotation Press, published this in May, 2011: