Small cat at the window

There’s the sound of a small thump on the kitchen table.

“What’s that?” she asks. A cat, I reply.

The cat has jumped in easily through the open kitchen window and now sits, compact and at ease with itself on yesterday’s Racing Post.

“I know that” she says, frowningslightly as she does, which I like. “But what’s it doing there? Is it your cat?”

No, I answer, truthfully.

“I hate cats” the cat yawns at her, and licks its paw. It is black, small and black. A small black cat sat on an old newspaper with a girl glaring at it. It’s like a postcard or something, needs a caption. “So if it’s not your cat what’s it doing here?” I shrug, and say I have no idea, which is also the truth. I am grateful to the cat though, for whilst she looks at it, and it looks at her, I can also look at her, trace the line of her hair, the untidy flick of ginger over the nape of her neck. I have a sudden urge to kiss that neck. I close my eyes and take half a steep backwards. Ridiculous idea.

She turns and I look quickly away from the swell of her small breasts, perceptible through a blue jumper. She looks younger than I remember from the night before, and her skin has that whiteness that always makes me think of Scottish or Irish girls, flecked with freckles.

I want coffee, I want a shower, I want to rub my neck where it aches from the night spent on the sofa, but any time spent making coffee and showering and rubbing my neck would be time spent away from her, enough time for me to melt out of her existence. Just a few more seconds, her, me, the cat. Just a few more seconds of this’ll be great.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next.

I met her last night, coming home from a long walk through the fields, moving quickly as the temperature was plummeting. I’d been out a lot longer than planned. Turned into my street and there was this figure slumped on the floor a few houses down from mine, I made to move on and heard the quiet hiccoughing of someone trying to stop crying. Walking up to the figure I saw a girl, young woman, early twenties or so. Not quite young enough to be my daughter, thank Christ, not yet. A bit drunk and angry and defiant so I guessed it was something to do with a young gentleman, which is probably why she said yes when I surprised myself by asking her if I can make her a cup of tea because otherwise she’ll catch her death. I’m not sure what I was thinking, or if I was thinking at all. The w0rds were out of my mouth and she said yes and we looked at each other in surprise.

I don’t know what she was expecting, but she seemed surprised to actually get tea.

She eyed me suspiciously when I showed her the bedroom, placed a clean towel out, smiled at her and said goodnight, her reply was halting. I heard the click of the bolt, sensible girl, went downstairs and sat for a while in the dark of the kitchen, listening to the clock. And now it’s morning and fuck me she’s beautiful, I had no idea. Big green eyes. Ginger hair. A heart-shaped face. Beautiful. I am in a sudden state of stasis, as if last night’s offer of tea has used up my impulse for the year.

The cat stretches, arching it’s back and thrusting its paws forward like it’s going to do a handstand any second, then it jumps off the table and disappears off upstairs. The girl snorts, evidently pleased that it’s gone.

“I hate cats” she repeats, then glowers up at me from under her fringe, like it’s my fault that cats exist. “Listen” she says at length, frowning slightly again “thanks.” I tell her she’s welcome and already I can see that we’re done. Bloody cat. She’s trying to find a nice way to leave. I don’t know what I’ll seem like to her but it can’t be good, how could it be? I smile at her, and try to look as non-threatening as possible as I do it, then I hear the click of the door. But I’m sure my sense of the order of events has gone fucked, because it’s after I hear the door close that I feel the brush of lips against my cheek.