The book binds me to its presence, as if the words she once wrote call to me from their pages and beg me to read them. This could be her book of shadows, journal, poetry, or even her dream-log! It compels me in every way, and mostly because the content within may be the only way I get my answers if I get them at all.
Without any further thought, I swiftly reach down and take the book off Fran’s lap, and the cat cringes and darts behind the chair. At that moment, I’m startled by a police officer announcing his arrival with a brisk knock on the door I’d left half ajar. I quickly shove the book in my purse. A young officer appears with an older partner following behind him, and they start making their way through the trash towards me.
What a handsome young stallion, I think, trying not to stare too obviously at the younger officer’s build—a welcomed and handsome distraction from the situation. Much too young for my taste, but no less than 6'4", clean-cut like any good rookie, his buzzed black hair contrasts nicely with his olive complexion. I’ve never strayed from Bruce, but I sure do appreciate a man in uniform. The older officer stood there foolishly gazing at my cleavage, scratching at a mole at the very edge of his receding hairline. Clearing his throat, he forces his eyes up to meet mine. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, but if you could just answer a couple questions for us and fill out this form.”
“Oh, she—I mean, I’m not family or anything. I only met her recently.” I felt ridiculous trying to justify my presence in the squalid little apartment.
The older officer grumbles, “All right then, well, if you could just answer a couple questions for us and fill out some paperwork, we’ll have you on your way as soon as possible.” Then, addressing his partner, he barks, “Harrison, contact animal control. We’re going to have to get rid of all of these rodents in here. God only knows how many of the filthy beasts the old woman had living in this mess.”
“Wait,” I said, searching for the skinny little calico. It was under the chair, its tail poking out next to Fran’s foot. “I’ll take this one.” I try coaxing the little cat out from under the chair, but it shoots out the other side, where Officer Harrison deftly scoops it up.
“Well then,” the older officer said, rolling his eyes in disgust, “the cat is your problem.” What an arrogant prick! Both of them noticed my growing discomfort and impatience. So did the cat as it starts squirming around in his arms, but not enough to get loose.
“I would be frisky too,” he says, smiling at me flirtatiously while grappling with the cat in his hands. He pulls the struggling calico to his chest and moves towards me. We have to stand close together to make the transfer, and I enjoy the brief thrill of contact as he hands the cat to me. As he withdraws his hands, they brush against my chest, but it’s incidental—and I have to admit, not entirely unwelcome.
As soon as the cat is in my arms, it becomes completely calm. Either it is more comfortable with a woman or it is worn-out from exertion. Looking down at it, I notice my blouse had become slightly disheveled in the transfer. The officers, it seems, noticed first. Men’s animal instincts are so obvious when confronted with anything physical. Even the most disciplined of men can convert into drooling slobs when a pair of breasts are on display. I adjust my clothing and ask with a waning smile if we can please get on with the process.
A short time later, with a cat in hand, and a much more occupied mind and purse, I leave the scene, completely aware of the rookie cop’s eyes lingering on me. But he’s no longer useful as a distraction to me; my mind is like a computer with no more memory space, running slow and full of nonsense.
On my taxi ride home, I pick up a collar, food, litter box, and other necessities for the cat, who cowers in the back seat. Luckily, I still have enough time to get her groomed and checked over by a vet before I need to get home. Along the way, trying to figure out how to explain the cat’s arrival, I decide she’ll make a wonderful Valentine’s Day gift for Cheyanne.
I get home only a little later than usual, greeted by the looks of absolute shock from both my husband and my daughter. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Still a little out of sorts from the day’s events, I must sound a little strange but come across believably jubilant. The calico, though a bit underweight, is now beautiful after her grooming. She was no doubt an expensive purchase at one time, and probably the shining star in Fran’s life.
Cheyanne screeches in excitement. The question on Bruce’s face goes unspoken, so I mouth “later, honey” at him as he shrugs. Cheyanne pays no attention to the silent conversation taking place. With the cat cradled in her arms, she waltzes off to her wing.
Alone in the kitchen, I tell Bruce almost everything, starting with the nightmare (although leaving out the part about my mysterious male partner) and ending with an explanation as to how we’re now cat owners. The irony of my bizarre dream has him in disbelief. “That crazy old neighbor of ours wasn’t bullshitting you about a woman named Fran, huh? Wow, Sage, you have been through a lot these past few months. I mean, maybe some vacation time is in order,” he jokes. He has no idea how much I’ve truly experienced, and I find myself grateful for that fact.
“A good night’s rest and possibly a morning bike ride in the brisk cold would do me good.” I wink at Bruce in an attempt to demonstrate that nothing’s gotten to me. He is no sucker for my tough girl act, but aware that when I put it on, he will surely feel the wrath of me defending it. He pretends to agree, and I walk away leaving him satisfied with half an understanding and no digression into that which I’d rather not explain. I don’t even have an explanation for myself, let alone one for anyone else. I’m grateful that the dynamics of our relationship allow for such freedom. But I’ve never needed the freedom to hide something from him. I dismiss this thought quickly; I’ve done nothing wrong by deciding not to reveal my dreams to Bruce. As for the dreams themselves, it’s not like I’ve cheated on him. No one has control over the content of their dreams unless they are lucid dreams. Still, I feel guilty.
Bruce is very selfless, but he’s certainly no fool and doesn’t allow leverage to be walked on. He is secure in himself for the most part and does not need to compensate in selfish ways to better his self-image. He allows himself just enough insecurity to work out and improve in a constructive manner. This always keeps his body in shape and his demeanor strong. The truth is, a man like Bruce distinguishes by the way he views himself rather than the way others view him. He is a natural leader. It is his power as an employer and his overwhelming mental hold on people that turns me on most. His innate assertiveness has been one of the major attractions since we first met. And on that thought, I let go of the last twenty-four hours and playfully throw myself on top of him. Diligently I lick the bottom of his earlobes while teasingly pulling on the pants straps of his Levi’s, pulling tighter at his erection. He loves it when I’m playful. Perhaps it’s the “in high spirits” attitude I project. I’m sure that the memory of me during my playful formative years pleases him most when I am in a lighthearted mood. This is not because Bruce prefers younger women, but I believe that he misses the side of me that didn’t take life by the balls, and let things be. In all actuality, Bruce likes cougars. Hollywood sells the idea of youth, and innocence of untouched skin, but Bruce prefers his women, women. I dressed in a schoolgirl outfit once, and he was hardly impressed. He didn’t become fully aroused until I took most of it off (not that it covered much). It is a comfortable sentiment while having a daughter