The Cat Guy

Flash Fiction.

When she left she didn’t even take the cat.

She just bounced under the cover of darkness one night when you were working late. You’re unsure if that had anything to do with it, or just how much — your lack of ability or desire to forge more of a disparity between a so-called career that might one day work out how you wanted it to and giving at least ample attention to the person who could have been the love of your life.

It was honestly impressive, the efficiency with which she made her complete egress. You walked in the door and found the place mostly empty. She’d taken it upon herself to divide up your shared belongings and take what she believed to be mostly hers — something she described in a rather terse handwritten note left on the catch-all table, probably had taken control realizing that your general timidity toward confrontation might keep you from fighting much for something like a duvet cover or whatever, and she’s right.

Your understanding is that breakups between live-in couples are generally more of a long and drawn-out affair — and honestly you feel a slight relief that this seems like it’s going to be a mostly clean break, one you can just kind of lie down and take without much fuss, as is your wont, because to find out exactly what went wrong might completely break you and for better or worse you’d kind of rather be left wondering.

She had not been fucking around when it came to the quick and cowardly move-out. But it turns out she had been fucking around for quite sometime in another sense.

And that was tangentially why the cat hadn’t joined her on the road to a new life or whatever.

The new guy (you use that term loosely, as there had been months of overlap, as it were) was allergic, she wrote, and so she hoped you would continue to give Chester a good home.

“It breaks my heart to leave him,” the note read.

You text a response to her note that says, “Do I need to get tested? Also, fuck you.”

You were allergic too when you first met, but powered through. Adapted somewhat, though you still tend to take more Benadryl than is reasonable for a normal human being.

You sit down on the couch with a heavy sigh, like you see people resigned to a fate less than what they’d hoped for do in all the movies, and Chester appears just like that from out of nowhere — like maybe he can sense your distress, or that he knows what’s up and realizes he has nobody else to turn to at this stage. Maybe both.

It breaks your heart a little bit.

He meows.

You ask him if he wants to start over.

He lets out a soft little purr.

You tell him he looks more like a Dave than a Chester.

He meows again. You scratch his head.

“Dave it is,” you say.

Now you and Dave do as you please.

He’s a cool cat. Even takes to walking around a little bit outside on a leash.

She likes all the pictures you post of him on Instagram (many of which show off his new leash-walking adoration), which is more than you’re comfortable quantifying given that you didn’t used to be much of a Cat Guy.

In the coming weeks she tries to visit him several times.

Each time you say you don’t think that’s a good idea.

You start to worry she’s going to want to take him back, this cat, this Dave that you’ve grown to love, who serves as a reminder that sometimes you get what you didn’t really want but are spared from something negative you once thought you needed.

So you box up what’s left in the apartment.

When you leave you take the cat.

An Ode to My Condiment Drawer

It was generally a toss-up between three things, what women would judge the most, on the semi-rare occasion that one entered my apartment during my three-yaar stint there (and I guess we can say four things if they happened to see my naked body, though they didn’t often verbalize their thoughts on that front): the stuffed animals, the elliptical in the living room and the transparent refrigerator drawer filled to the brim with various packets of condiments along with the occasional (okay more than occasional) fortune cookie, because that just seemed like a good place for them to go. I would always order copious amounts of Chinese food and freak out because I’d get so many of those cookies and not know which fortune was meant for me or how the fuck that all really works, getting just one would’ve been daunting enough, so I’d just do what I usually do with things that could pertain to my future, which is put them off indefinitely by stuffing them in either a physical or metaphorical drawer.

These women would open my fridge to get a water or beer or something and say some variation of “What the fuck is this?” while pointing to the drawer. Sometimes they’d open it and dig around in there, see what they could find. Or we’d get something delivered and they’d be like, “I think I saw some Chick-fil-A signature sauce in there and that would probably go really good with this.”

So they’d judge it negatively initially but it would come in handy sometimes and they weren’t above taking advantage of that, is I guess what I’m saying.

People can be that way.

I don’t know if I can aptly explain my attachment to this drawer, but I’ll try. I think I felt some sort of sentimentality toward it because it started as something small and then I watched it grow as I grew along with it. And then there was the comfort factor. Having all these things around when I needed them, it was something i had some semblance of control over, chaotic and disorganized as the contents contained therein generally were.

Through our tenure together parts of us expired.

Other parts were used.

Some had no takers whatsoever.

And some were ultimately thrown away as I prepared to start over and try to move on, something I don’t necessarily like to do in some way every few years or so, but feel compelled to do anyway.

Now I’m in a new place and I’ve started filling a new drawer, first with the cookies that came with my first Chinese meal in Chicago that I have refused to open.

I don’t know what the future has in store for me.

I don’t know what cookie is for me, if any.

And I like it that way.

Knock Knock

Flash Fiction.

When I was feeling lonely I’d knock on the thin wall two times.

Well, not every time I was feeling lonely.

That’d be too much.

You’ve gotta keep yourself from knocking at some point.

Show some restraint.

I mean this both literally and metaphorically.

I guess it was mostly nights when I decided I didn’t want to be lonely if there was a convenient option to not be, if only for a few hours.

It never happened more than twice per week.

Maybe we didn’t want to get used to each other.

Anyway, the two knocks.

They were enough to get attention but not too much to where it becomes out of the question that the consecutive sounds may have been unintentional.

If she was alone she’d knock back exactly seven times.

If she wasn’t she’d not knock back at all and I’d turn over or change the channel or snap one off or whatever — then I’d go to bed.

This wouldn’t happen that often, though.

I mean a non-response, because, like I said, thin walls, so I’d usually already have an idea if someone else was there with her.

It just depended on if she was in the mood for company and was willing to loosen up morally for the evening.

These seven knocks, they weren’t in that rhythmic cadence you might be thinking of in your head right now.

(Knock-kn-kn-knock-knock, knock knock.)

No — it was seven straight taps in rapid succession.

We’d landed on seven when making the arrangement because it was her — really original — lucky number, and it was innocuous enough.

We didn’t want to make any mistakes with something that could be easily emulated by others.

We didn’t want to make any mistakes within what was, inherently, and we knew it, a huge mistake, at least for her.

I personally had no qualms with home wrecking.

Long as I wasn’t going to get caught.

Half a minute or so would pass after those first seven knocks (meant to acknowledge receipt) before the next seven would come if she felt like coming over and he was going to be gone for at least a while.

Then I’d stand at the door looking through the peephole until she showed up and I’d usher her in, quickly, hoping no neighbors were looking.

The congress always took place at my place because she wouldn’t have to change the sheets in her bed afterward, wouldn’t have to risk the potential of his finding some stray chest hair or whatever that didn’t match his.

When he left — and not even partially because of knowing about me, to my knowledge — she kept the apartment.

We could now do our thing whenever we felt like it.

Didn’t even have to hide it.

We stopped knocking because we didn’t need to.

But then before too long we stopped seeing each other in that way because we no longer felt excited about doing so.

We could tell that now the magic was gone.

Funny how that works, right?

Sometimes you have to be able to truly have something to figure out what you want is something else.

And then there are times it’s only entertaining if it’s somehow wrong.

Now if I knock on the thin walls it’s loud and abrasive.

Conveys the sentiment of, “Hey, keep it the fuck down. Some of us are trying to get some shut-eye.”

Just because I don’t necessarily want her doesn’t mean I cherish the sound of someone who really, extremely does, judging from the noises, the pitches she hits that I could never make her come even close to.

Several times an evening, most nights.

Can’t knock that kind of vigor, though.

The Phone Voice

Flash Fiction.

Not just anyone can master The Phone Voice.

We can’t all disguise how we feel — can’t hide disappointment, anger, angst or any of the other more intense emotions, really, all that well.

Some of us are better at faking it than others — can turn it on or off based on almost any given situation.

It’s something of an art. A skill. Or maybe a personality defect that can be in some instances actually admirable, depending on how you look at it.

But we all know someone who is capable of pulling off the perfect Phone Voice — the kind of person who can be in the middle of a raging screaming fit so frightening it’s capable of inducing one of those fabled Fear Boners while also making you feel like you want to run away weeping, maybe piss your pants (which is usually awkward but would probably be even more awkward if you did so while you had a horror-induced erection). And then they can completely compose themselves at a moment’s notice (in this instance a moment is, give or take, one-and-a-half traditional phone rings) to pick up and adopt a saccharine tone and cordially engage with the person on the other side of the line.

My parents were both masters of The Phone Voice, and I learned mine through osmosis.

Since it takes one to know one I can sometimes tell if someone’s using theirs, if I pay enough attention.

And this time I did, even though I’d never heard even her regular phone voice before, so I didn’t have grounds for comparison beyond the tone she most often used when we were interacting in person.

In hindsight, I should never have actually called her — but I was trying to mix things up. A friend who I will never trust again told me people in this day and age enjoy being called on the phone old-fashioned-like every now and then, and I was like, “Sure, I guess that makes sense,” even though I’d find it super weird if someone I’d been dating for only like a month decided to just ring me up to make some dinner plans, which is what I was doing.

When somebody who is not your grandmother answers the phone sounding so happy to hear from you, the chances are certainly there that they’re actually irate about something but are around other people and don’t want them to be able to listen to one side of a conversation where someone is getting their fuckin’ hide ripped apart. So they keep The Phone Voice going until they can make their egress to somewhere private where they can then really let you have it.

“Hello, this is Beth,” she said in The Phone Voice. I could hear background noise that sounded like a bar. Then: “It’s so great to hear from you! Just give me one sec.”

I think she even put me on mute.

She came back with a fierceness, this time in a voice very far on the other side of the spectrum from The Phone Voice. I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but despite my ignorance still felt that Potential Fear Boner Twinge and that burning feeling in my shoulders and the back of my neck that occurs during times of extreme trepidation. (You know what I’m talking about.)

“You went on a date with my best fucking friend last night,” she said.

Well, shit, I thought, having gone on a date the night before with someone I’d met on one of the apps — a move I’d only made because my instincts had told me Beth wasn’t that into me and that things would soon be coming to an end. (I should never, ever trust my instincts.)

Small world, I thought, wondering what the chances were that something like this would happen.

Guess I missed that conversation where we became exclusive, I thought, acknowledging that sometimes those things occur tacitly, at least in the mind of one of the people involved.

Pretty sure that usually comes after one tells their best fucking friend about the person in her life, though, I thought, which raised the question of whether or not her friend did know and went out with me anyway, which would be kind of diabolical.

“Don’t ever call — or contact me again,” she said, then hung up.

Tough but fair, I thought, vowing to never again call anyone again and stick instead to text, a forum where the words had a way of hurting, if only slightly, less.

Brush Your Teeth

Flash Fiction.

“You never brush before bed,” she said moments after she spit out mouthwash, seconds before she’d take her place in the tacitly agreed upon side of my queen-sized sleep machine, where she’d place her cold feet under my warm legs, which felt nice. Familiar.

She had a point. But I only didn’t do this when she was around. Some nights she spent at her place, I’d even get crazy and bust out the floss before bedtime.

This was, admittedly, a strange quirk. That’s not at all lost on me. I was sometimes (three or even four nights a week) sacrificing my faithfulness to what is basically the minimum standard for tooth care and oral hygiene as dictated by the American Dental Association, the direction to brush your teeth both morning and evening, to avoid the potential of discomfort that might be unlikely to ever come in the first place.

I didn’t brush at night when she was around because I didn’t want to be like those couples on movies and TV shows who have these important and sometimes tense and/or confrontational conversations while they’re brushing their teeth together before calling it a night.

Stop for a second and consider how many times you’ve seen this type of thing take place on screen.

I’ll wait.

Once you think about it, it’s more than you would have assumed, right?

Bet there’s, like, a montage of those scenes playing in your head now.

It’s kind of like how when you buy a certain model of a car you start to see similar vehicles all the time when you never really noticed them much before.

Anyway.

I was afraid at even the prospect of such conversations. The precursor to pillow talk that would lead to the kind of pillow talk that would then keep my mind racing away from sleep through the entire night.

I didn’t brush my teeth because I didn’t want to become another trope.

So instead I just stayed in bed, not taking proper care of myself.

Wait. Fuck. That’s a trope too, isn’t it?

Is anything or anyone truly original anymore?

I Would Watch You…

Whitewash a wall, Tom Sawyer style, and would stay still staring for more than one coat, if necessary.

Hang up your favorite prints and pictures on the wall after the paint dries, taking care to make sure they’re completely straight and level.

Butter toast on both sides, like some kind of maniac.

Light up a room — and I don’t mean it in the saccharine sense, like you do it with your smile or entrance or whatever, though I’d of course watch that too, but literally entering and flicking a switch, that simple.

Brush your teeth and go through your full nightly routine, from floss to makeup removal to lotion application.

Panic-order food from a drive-thru, getting too much for the two of us to plow through.

Eat chips in bed, sometimes getting crumbs everywhere, but I’d do so without complaint and I’d never make any kind of move to ask you to leave said bed.

Unpack the boxes full of things you don’t necessarily want me to touch or see.

Rearrange the refrigerator and finally do away with my carefully curated condiment drawer.

Wash your delicates in the sink or tub.

Fold your clothes on the bed.

Clean out and color-code the closet.

Steam your Sunday’s Best.

Chastise me for being unable to really help you when it comes to perfectly folding a fitted sheet.

Sing a karaoke song I hate because of an ex-girlfriend while I quickly fall in love with your version and forget about her, hopefully forever.

Argue with Alexa about the accuracy of her weather reports.

Watch a movie, losing the plot myself and then watching your reaction to the unexpected twist.

Talk your way out of a parking ticket.

Try to pet every single dog you pass, even and especially the ornery ones.

Pick up your first ever foster dog, then picking up its shit from the sidewalk.

Do Sudoko, or get frustrated to the point of a furrowed brow over crossword puzzles that get harder and harder as the week moves along.

Point out my shortcomings, without rebuttal.

Pack your boxes back up.

Walk away, wondering why all I can do is watch, when there are plenty of things i’m sure I could say to make you stay.

It’s Not a Walk of Shame. It’s a Stride of Pride.

Flash Fiction.

You’re wide awake this morning.

Early.

Much earlier than you’re used to.

Slept even worse than usual, too, which is kind of impressive given your general inability to sleep well or at all.

But sometimes glory comes with a cost and a night of little rest is clearly a price you’re more than willing to pay.

There is nothing really like waking up around dawn in a (welcomingly) strange place you hadn’t expected to end up when you set out the night before, and reaching over to discover that the person who owns the bed is still there asleep right next to you.

Then there are the groggy goodbyes as you don your outfit piece by piece, plucking each item from various areas of their bedroom floor, before you set out on your way home.

You could take a car.

Or public transit.

It’s cold and clear and crisp — the kind of weather that lets the cold run free and make its way straight through you.

Not too comfortable — much less temperate than you’re used to, but that’s what you signed up for when you moved to this new place, is it not?

So you decide to walk anyway.

You have nowhere you have to be anytime soon.

You’ve got all the time in the world.

May as well embrace your triumph.

It takes every fiber of restraint in your being to not try to high-five the first person you pass — to not shoot finger guns at the mailman completing the beginning stretches of his daily route or just randomly pump your fist and do an Anchorman leap in hopes another passerby will randomly and almost clairvoyantly vibe with you and follow suit.

They just won’t understand — won’t be prepared to properly share in your victory.

Which is fine.

Because it’s yours.

You briefly consider calling your Mom but realize that even with the time difference it’s still a little bit too early, and besides, she’d just start planning a wedding date and you don’t know yet what if anything will happen here.

Could have been your last first date.

Could be you blow it in epic fashion.

Or something in between.

That’s not a right now problem.

That’s a consideration for future you, and you’ll find out one way or another soon enough.

Sometimes you have to live in the moment, if only for a little while.

There’s likely plenty of time in the future to have your dreams come true or be completely crushed.

Will it be love?

Is that what you even want?

When will you start to get afraid to find out?

Not now.

For today the end does not matter.

Better to bask in some optimism, the excitement of wondering what if anything will come of what just occurred, what you’re walking away from, literally, because, you know, you don’t want to, like, overstay your welcome, especially so soon, but you are hoping it will take place again — that you’ll walk into that same apartment on a different occasion.

Past the halfway point you stop for some to-go coffee and breakfast, looking all disheveled and not giving much of a fuck.

You over-order because you worked decently hard last night and might even deserve it, if they weren’t faking it.

(Can you fake muscle spasms, and what kind of person would go through that kind of trouble if so?)

You can never really have enough hash browns anyway, if you’re being honest with yourself.

Next stop is for whiskey because you’ve got a whole weekend day ahead of you and while you don’t want to rest on your laurels it’ll be a nice partner in your celebrating having a story to tell if even only to yourself and, quite frankly, a brand new addition to the spank bank, not to be crass, though crass is real sometimes.

While you were checking out at the shop your phone buzzed and when you pull it from your pocket you see they’ve already sent you a text — something nonchalant, a new budding inside joke calling back something you spoke about the previous night, and a brief explanation of a strange dream they had.

So now while you day drink you’ll try to read between the lines, spend some time drafting a response.

It’s a little victory.

You must again refrain from fist pumping.

Your doorman greets you with a knowing smile, asks how you’re living.

He knows what’s up.

He’s seen this so many times before.

This is all only really that special to you.

It’s not unique.

Not at all.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.