It’s December. Soon, this blog will enter its third year of existence. Wow. No idea how much content I’ll produce next year, I have a feeling it could be even less than 2015…
But let’s not think about this right now. This year has still four weeks or so left to go, so there’s still time for me to write.
So, without further ado, here’s another installment of the story of Eliot, the not so magical cat, and his life and relationship issues.
“Demon Hunters and Other Problems” – Part VI
Half an hour later, I was sitting on Oliver’s couch and felt very, very lost. The apartment was huge. And since practically all walls had been removed, it felt even bigger. Seen from the street, the building was inconspicuous—red bricks, an old wooden door, fire escape ladders… Just your typical New York City building (well, what tourists thought was typical, anyway). But this—loft was anything but typical: brand new wooden flooring, a huge open kitchen that would have suited a five-star restaurant, a living room that practically consisted of a giant red couch… And, well, yeah, for some reason Oliver’s owner didn’t deem it necessary to have a private life—his (or her?) kind size bed stood in the middle of the room, clearly visible for visitors and neighbors.
Oliver didn’t seem to notice my amazement. “The bathroom’s over there.” His tail curled into the direction. “Try not to ruin the marble floor, my man is a bit—obsessed with it…”
“Your—man…?” He wasn’t referring to his boyfriend, was he?
“My owner. You know: you might think that once you got money it doesn’t matter anymore how often you have to buy new tiles, but Mr. Chop-Chop would prefer not using the bathroom at all over ruining his precious marble.” Oliver shook his head.
“Mr. Chop… Chop…” I frowned. Was this really his actual name?
“Don’t tell him I call him that. He prefers ‘Bob’, but he doesn’t look like that at all…” Oliver jumped onto the kitchen counter—gracefully, like an athlete—and opened the bag with the bagels I had somehow managed to transport here.
“You’ve been living here for a long time?” I asked, noticing that despite all the fanciness around me, one thing was decidedly missing: the personal. No photos, no books, no clothing lying around. As if the loft had just sprung from a housing catalogue.
“A few days…” Oliver murmured as he unpacked the bagels. “Not that there was any need to leave San Fran, but hey, Mr. Chop-Chop is never satisfied with what he has…” He looked down at me. “Are you coming or what? We’re having brunch, remember?”
I nodded and made my way onto the kitchen top. I was less graceful and had to concentrate very hard in order to not start panting like an old cat. Luckily, Oliver didn’t pay much attention to me and rather started to devour his bagel.
We ate in silence for a while. I wanted to make conversation, wanted to know more, everything about Oliver, but he didn’t seem up to it. In fact, he didn’t even look at me while he was chewing on his salmon. I lost my appetite. If he didn’t want me, fine, but why did he have to invite me over then?
Oliver noticed I had stopped eating. “Next time, go to the deli round the corner. Their salmon is better.”
“I don’t think there will be a next time…” I said and hopped down onto one of the bar stools.
At least I now had Oliver’s attention. He looked down at me. “Okay…” Well, or maybe not.
“Why did you invite me if you’re not interested?” I was pissed. Well, partly at myself—you don’t try to hook up with a one-night-stand. But he hadn’t refuted me, so it was his fault as well.
Oliver rolled his eyes. “I don’t know anyone around here. I was just hoping you could show me the city a little bit. But you’re obviously just interested in sex, so why don’t you just leave?”
“You were hoping your one-night-stand could show you the city?! How stupid are you?!” It came out much harsher than I had intended.
“It was my first night out in—I don’t know, decades? So, I’m sorry that I needed a little adventure. You very just the first cat I ran into.” I could see Oliver’s claws now—long, and white, and very, very sharp.
I blinked a few times—something was off. “Decades…?” I finally asked.
Oliver was about to answer when I heard the key turn in the entrance door.
“Shit…” Oliver murmured and retracted his claws.
“Hey Oliver, I’m back! Meetings went quicker than I thought. You want a pastrami sandwich?”
My mouth hang open in shock. Standing in the door was none other than—Bob Fletcher.