Monday, February 9

The Silence of the Bangs

I LOVED HER AT first sight, from the time she appeared on that living room carpet in the summer, and so great was the affection that even allergies were forgotten. It was her eyes because they were not cat eyes squeezed into those confused sockets but human eyes; large, brimming, circular. Not a single cat emotion was harboured behind them but real human emotion and the irresistible urge to claw at the litter after every shit, clawing for her life, filling the flat with this furious dry scratching. It is impossible to not forgive her anything, whether she is pissing on the bathroom floor, punching her brother in the face, whining for breakfast or snapping at your hand with her sharp teeth as she tires of half-arsed stroking.
Presently the book is one big part of the silence in the room.
She is curled on a pair of jeans, motionless, erupting in a roll of stretching, mewing loudly, blinking the big human eyes, meeting the gaze of her bed, and then relaxing once more.
We are alone but there is no music on; nothing to dance to or to tap toes, no sound to reminisce within. For a moment, bored of the spine of the book, she attacks the jeans with soft ferocity. She digs her claws in, bites, snaps, twists her head to achieve a better angle, so she can sink her teeth in good. Cheeky bitch. Forgive and forget, brush it off, order her more expensive cat food – the stuff she goes crazy for, waking the entire flat on weekend mornings, running up and down the stairs, climbing on to a chest.
She sits there, looks at her bed and then nuzzles the spine of the book for some time.
At last, peace. She is down. Her big human eyes are asleep.
She is soft and her fur in the light shows that she is soft as anything. To resist reaching out and stroking her, for fear of agitating her into another attack! She is a warlord, merciless.
The markings upon her brow lend her either a bemused or angry look, one that reads—‘What did I do?’ or knots and—‘I’m going to kill you in your sleep tonight.’
She puts her head up in a flash; was she sleeping or just pretending to? The bang from above has startled her and her angry eyes are surveying the room for the source of this disruption. She will spill blood tonight. Her face says it all.
Another turn of her head. The ears go. The ears are white inside, curled and cochlear, the black fur clouding around down towards her cheeks. She will not rest, not when there is retribution to be sought.
But she will not get retribution. Not tonight. She tries to calm but the—
Prohibits her from resting. Her claws come out into the jeans. She nuzzles the spine, reassuming her pleasure, before—
The couple upstairs fuck at their peak for a few minutes. The last thrashes of Friday night. In this instance they are on the floor, above our heads, putting the final touches on hot thighs. She is looking up now, aware of the source’s location, and her brow is knitted this perfect, cute coupon. I put my fingers into the fur on her head and she meows out her sharp white teeth, then nips me. Laughter as she shakes her head. Now she can relax herself back to sleep. The silence of the bangs joins us and we lie there on another Friday night, reading for pleasure.

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