Honey Trap

Eira purrs on my lap, soft and light, and I lift her to my face. Her body is loose and trusting as I bury my face into her mottled fur and breathe in the warm scent of home she carries with her.

My heart swells as she nuzzles my cheek, her rasping tongue drying the sweat from my morning run.

— I think I’m starting to like Ellis, — I tell her as I lean back into the chair and lower her back into my lap. She pads at my thighs in approval.

Ellis. My boyfriend of three years. The man I smile at every morning I stay over at his house, the man I learned to act in love for. I think I’m starting to like him.

I sigh. I think about his eyes. A training exercise; find three physical things in him to admire. Then three about his personality.

— His eyes are brown, — I tell her — and they reflect amber in the morning sun.

In the dark, they are a rich dark colour, but the flecks of hazel scattered in his irises, and the dark brown, almost black ring that circles them makes them look like honey when the light hits them.

— He has a crooked smile.

It’s one of my favourite things about him. It makes him look kind, breaking his face out of its usual serious lines, creasing it into something new and soft.

— He has nice hands.

They’re calloused and freckled, with strong fingers that love to trace shapes on my back.

She blinks at me, slow and unjudgmental.

— He’s a romantic. — I offer. She meows, a long burbling sound — You’re right, I used that one last week.

I take a moment to think. — He’s good at his job — I say. Three years in, countless hours of building trust between whispered fake secrets and selective truths, he still hasn’t shared an inch of his project with me. Nothing but a knowing smile and a deep distracting kiss after teasing me for poking.

Most days I wonder if I’ll ever complete the mission. Maybe I’ll have to marry him before he complies. The thought of giving up this place makes me shudder. The one place where it’s just me. Just me and my beautiful cat and no one calls me Anwir. The name that is both mine, and has never been mine.

I scoop Eira up again and press her to my chest where the vibration of her purring echoes off my ribcage. I press her tight against me hoping it’s true that a cat’s love can heal you. That her purring is enough to fill the hollow ache.

— He loves his friends fiercely — the loyalty he shows his friends, he shows me, is staggering. He’s there for those he loves in an instant. He remembers all our favourite foods, our favourite shows, our favourite places to go. He takes us there when we’re feeling overwhelmed and tired and just need someone to listen, to not offer anything but pure unjudgmental kindness. It must be exhausting.

His favourite spot is the oasis. It’s not really an oasis but he calls it that. I think, if he ever proposed to me, it would be there.

It’s hidden behind a wooden fence with a metal warning sign, rusted by the years and the water in the air.

You have to jump over the sun-bleached fence to get to the rock fall and climb over the crumbled mountain that paves the way down. Stairs made of rock hide beneath the rubble and become visible the deeper down you go.

The first thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. It fills the air, blending with the rustling of leaves and the distant cicada chirps that hush as you get closer. The smell of wildflowers and damp earth envelops you; it’s intoxicating.

The path weaves its way, guiding you, and then finally, the magnificent waterfall, a torrent of crystal-clear water thundering into the pool below, where mist rises, carrying tiny droplets that glisten in the sunlight. Sunlight that filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Moss and ferns cling to every crevice. Towering trees reach toward the sky. Time seems to stand still.

He took me there on our third date.

I stroke Eira’s fur, absentminded. I really do think I’m starting to like him. Would that be so bad? It might make the job easier if there was a little bit of truth in it. It might make it harder.

She jumps off my lap, claws making tiny pinpricks on my trousers as she bears her weight down before the jump. She bumps her forehead against my ankle, an affectionate gesture of impatience, before strolling into the kitchen. I follow.

— He’s in love with me, — I say as I open the cupboard. She stares expectantly at my hands as they pull her breakfast out from where she can’t reach it. — and he shows it in the most beautiful ways.

He doesn’t say it often, those words that are supposed to mean so much, but he makes me food every single time we're together, without fail, because I mentioned one time, three years ago, that I didn’t like cooking. He never asks, he just does, making sure to stock the things I like, even when I’m not going to be there. Just in case.

He waits to watch the shows he’s most excited to see so as to share them. He re-watches old favourites with me in my mother tongue even though it’s not his first language so I enjoy them as much as he does. I’ve never had to ask for that either, he just does.

He kisses me three times when we say goodbye because once isn’t enough, and three times again the next time he sees me to bridge the gap between visits.

Eira crunches on her cat food, even as I’m pouring it, and no longer paying any attention, turns her back on me. — How like a cat — I say and scratch her soft white head. She burbles, disgruntled, between mouthfuls for me to leave her to her breakfast in peace.

The hallway to the bathroom stretches before me, and I peel the t-shirt from my body on my way to it and ball it up in my fist for the hamper. The edge of the bath is hard and cold through my trousers, but I sit on it anyway, feeling it dig into my aching thigh muscle as I reach for the tap. The water thunders into the tub, almost as loud as the waterfall, almost loud enough for me to miss my phone, ringing, forgotten on the sink.

The name that flashes on my screen makes my heart drop just a little. Emlyn. The name of the sister I don’t have. I turn the water off and the silence is almost as deafening, pierced only by my breathing and the shrill ring of my phone. I swipe my screen and try to mask the deep breath I’m taking before I answer.

— Good morning, Director, how can I help you?