Ebony & Ivory [H.S]

Thirty-Six

"Lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones. And I will try to fix you"

"Oh come off it, they're not that bad," I accuse, directing my annoyance to my extremely fussy cat, Bette Davis. Those dry biscuits cost me almost £60 online after she stopped eating the other brand I was buying.

I wonder if it's just me that has conversations with my pet, and then feel incredibly foolish for doing so. I walk over to him, my slippers making a flopping sound against the floor as they are probably a good two sizes too big for me. I sidle by to where he is, rendering him completely ambushed, and pick him up, holding him like a baby. He squirms, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"You used to like it when I held you like this," I inform him, and I swear he understands me as he purrs quite gently. I let him down, and he then saunters over by the door, rubbing his head against the doorframe.

"Not today Mr Bette Davis," I announce, as I pour the last cold dregs from my tea cup into the sink, rinsing it in warm soapy water. I'm caught off guard by my phone going off in the bedroom, and I run to try and make it in time.

Alfie.

I allow it to go to voicemail, especially with how things are at the moment. He's perfect, and every day I feel myself falling the inevitable journey into something even greater. But there's a but. There's a chance that - like my mother, I could potentially be diagnosed with cancer. Alfie is so loving, and sweet, and almost too perfect to be considered real. He's the guy that every girl dreams of ending up with, but are told to be realistic, and miss out on because they end up settling for something less. I haven't told him about the medical tests I've undergone, because I already know his reaction. He would be there for me in a way that I could never quite understand, yet need. He'd support me, and continue to act as we were, while it would be tearing me up inside. Not the cancer, but the guilt of him wasting away what should be the best years of his life. Taking me to hospitals, helping me with my medication, and it would inevitably suck the life out of him. How could I ever live with myself by burdening him to that kind of life?

I return to the kitchen area, and Bette Davis scowls, his tail high in the air.

"What's gotten into you?" I exclaim, bending down to pet him. Before I even get the chance, he scampers away, jumping on the couch, ignoring his perfectly good bed that I bought him, that he's never used.