Angels Wear Blue Jumpsuits

Part 9

I'll never understand cats.

Dogs are easy. They wag their tail when they're happy, they bark if something isn't right, they cry if they're sad, they growl if they feel threatened.

But cats?

I retract my previous statement about Tammie– seducing her wasn't like reverting a flat-earther, it was like mind-reading a feline. And not just any kitty, but mine.

Arya doesn't like people. Me? I'm acceptable. My friends? Nope. My mother? Fuck off. But you?

Oh, she loves you.

I let you inside my house that evening and Arya doesn't bat an eye at you. Well, I lie, she blinks at you. From what I now understand about cats, it apparently means 'I love you'. You kneel to her in the hallway and she circles you, nuzzling you at every angle and I can only watch with a smile. She can feel your warmth like I can.

"Friendly little thing," you smile at her, scratching behind her ear, "boy or girl?"

"Girl," I say, leaning in the doorway, "most calico cats are female. Something to do with chromosome pairing."

"Oh, like ginger cats? I heard eighty per cent of them are male."

I shrug with a smile and while I don't care for the small talk, I do like the cologne you're wearing. The small breeze outside pushes in from the front door and tosses the scent up into my nose. You smell deep.

That makes zero sense, doesn't it? But there was no other way to describe it.

"Arya, can you let the man breathe?" I ask, shutting the door, "he's my guest, not yours."

You laugh. "Guess you'll have to share me."

Something about those words made me feel a certain way. Like you were implying you were my property. With a blush, I walk you through the living area. Your eyes are everywhere, taking in your surroundings and how I've chosen to decorate the house. And it doesn't take you long to notice something very obvious about me.

"You like plants," you grin as you spot the dozen or so pots scattered throughout the kitchen. You step forward to a larger one near the pantry. "Oh, isn't this that plant that grows to a ridiculous size?"

"Monstera deliciosa," I educate, "and yes. Don't ask me where I'm gonna put the bastard when its leaves are touching the ceiling. He's growing too fast, for my liking."

You turn with a smirk. "I bet you're one of those people who name and talk to your plants, aren't you?"

"Hey, plants like being spoken to!"

Your smirk only grows, as does my defensiveness. "It's scientifically proven that some species of plants have a positive response to vibration– that includes soundwaves produced by human speech!"

"Alright, alright," you laugh, "I wasn't judging you– just making an observation."

"Yeah, observe this," I flick you the middle finger and you chuckle. "Coffee?"

"Sure," you say and take a seat at my small dining table, "one part sugar, one part milk."

You're grinning as I set down our coffees, not at yours, but mine. "Black coffee, huh? Bold of you."

"I wouldn't pass my exams or be able to write a damned word without it."

"You write?"

Oh god, you're going to ask what I write, aren't you?

"What about?"

"Oh, y'know," I shrug, "things n' stuff."

You chuckle, your hands settling around the cup. "Is it explicit porn?"