Toothbrush & Pants

Can you keep a secret?

The cat asks a third time, despite me ignoring their previous attempts to elicit a reply from me.

The flywheel of my bicycle buzzes like a pursuant fly as I push it along the path of the park, handle-bars gripped on my left.

The cat trots along on the right, it's gait light and carefree, as though it doesn't care about the answer; taking pleasure simply in the asking of it.

I can feel the golden eyes staring up at me, and sense the inevitability of the inquiry being repeated a fourth time.

At this point, I'd like to make it clear that this is unusual for me. Cats, or any form of animal, domestic or otherwise, do not tend to start conversations with me.

The larger part of me is unwilling to encourage whatever mental breakdown I appear to be having, but the idea of being asked again makes me uncomfortable.

I mutter a reply self-consciously, 'No...'

The cats give a happy little meow and to my dismay cries, Good!

It then runs on ahead, darts across the lawn, hops up onto a wall and looks back at me. At that moment I have a sudden and disconcerting sense of familiarity. There is something in that look that rings a tiny bell in my mind.

Before it leaps out of sight, it gives me a sharp and knowing wink.

For the first time, I wonder if perhaps I should go home and get into my own bed.

*

I had entered the park, quite happily, having made better progress on my ride up the long hill, and had decided to walk the bike under the sunlit boughs. I was early, after all; barely seven-thirty, and did not want to seem too keen.

The situation with the cat had perturbed me, but I had decided to chalk it up to a week of stress at work. I'd started taking St Johns Wort and attempted to replace my seven cups of coffee a day with camomile tea, hoping that this weekend away from the escalating office tensions would relax me by Monday.

I needed to simply get out of my own head.

Taylor's little flat was only a thirty-minute ride from my shared house, but far enough from the chaos of the city centre that to me, it was the Maldives.

I heave my bike up the steps and buzz the door. There is no voice over the intercom, but the lock clicks, allowing me to push my bike it inside the vestibule where I lock it up.

I take the steps to the third floor two at a time and rap excitedly on the door. It crosses my mind that this might not be the right flat and check the address on my phone; no, it's correct.

Taylor and I had met three times before, having enjoyed the same number of successful dates that had resulted in an invitation to spend the weekend at her place. We had yet to sleep together, and although there had been implication to that effect in text form that had aroused in me an adolescent hope, it was not a given.

Taylor, despite being lovely and interesting, seemed bizarrely mercurial. In truth, I found her erratic personality deeply intriguing and was looking forward to the weekend.

She opens the door sharply, creating an odd backdraft that almost seems to want to pull me inside the flat. I prepare myself to say hi, but she has already leaned on plant a kiss on my lips.

I respond, surprised, yet obviously pleased. Taylor had kissed me only once before, without me first initiating it; the other times she seemed either very reserved or extremely enthusiastic.

This time, it was gentle.

I jump. There is a quiet meow and pressure against my shin. Opening one eye, I peer past Taylor's cheek to the floor and see a cat there.

My heart settles. It is not the same cat from the park; this one is dusty black, the one in the park was ginger. I admonish myself for the foolishness. It was a mild psychotic episode, that's all.

I hope that there was such a thing.

Taylor must sense my shifted attention, and breaks the kiss. She looks at the cat, frowns, shoes it away with her foot, then smiles, 'Are you coming in then?'

I cannot help but grin, 'Yes, please.'

Her eyes are blue; I hadn't noticed that before.

Taylor takes my hand and leads me inside. The black cat stalks away, glaring at Taylor. As she closes the door, I scan the corridor and see that on a little cushioned Ottoman there is another cat. This one is white and seems to be completely comatose, curled up and purring softly.

I shudder at the sight of yet another cat. Having never given the feline species much thought, I suddenly felt very wary around them.

Taylor's hand pulls me away, into the living room and thoughts of cats dissolve like sugar in water.

*

The black cat leaps on top of the Ottoman, beside the white cat that does not even flinch at the presence.

It would not. Could not.

With judgemental green eyes, she watches the two humans move into the living room, Taylor looking over the visitor's shoulder and giving a wink.

The black cat sighs and frowns in such a way that to any other species it might appear like an unchanged expression, then hears a rattle of pots in the kitchen.

Leaping off the Ottoman and trotting into the kitchen, they arrive in time to see the ginger Tabby shaking their paws convulsively at the dampness of the draining board.

They were, and always had been, the clumsiest. The tabby sees the black cat staring, What?

Where have you been?

The tabby doesn't shrug in the conventional sense, but the implication is received, much to the black cat's irritation.

Sensing an incoming interrogation, the tabby changes the subject, They're here?

A nod that is not a nod.

The tabby drops from the worktop to the linoleum floor, sits and states matter of factly, I want to go next.

It's not your turn until tomorrow morning.

I want to swap.

The black cat sighs and turns her back, We all agreed on the schedule. The buyer for the new model will be here soon, so I need to take control of the asset when they arrive.

Oh yeah, the tabby retorts, ruefulness in their voice, was that part of the agreement?

The black cat follows the tabby's gaze to the gap in the living room door, to where the humans are busily removing their clothes.

Oh, for goodness sake.

*

It wasn't that it wasn't enjoyable, just unexpectedly brief, and Taylor had almost immediately fallen asleep. And it wasn't the fact that she had pinned the left arm, it was nice that she felt comfortable enough to nod off, but that she suddenly felt like a dead weight.

The event over, any afterglow of satisfaction is smothered by the feeling of vulnerability in my semi-clothed state. I am at least pleased that I although I had packed lightly, the left pocket of my jacket holstering my toothbrush and in the right, a spare pair of pants, I am smugly prepared for any and all eventualities.

I look around the flat. It is a hodgepodge of accumulated items and furniture rather than a space designed ahead of creation.

And there is an awful lot of cat hair, I notice for the first time.

It covers the carpet and most of the surfaces and even my recently discarded garments now have a fine layer of fur.

I detect movement in my peripheral vision and turn my head as far as I can in my awkward position. The white cat is waking up from its place on the Ottoman, yawning and stretching and giving me an odd, sort of pleased look before jumping to the floor.

It stalks away into the kitchen, to where the black cat is stood seemingly waiting for it with an air of contemptuous foot-tapping. The white cat rubs itself against the black, the latter seeming to become infuriated at the action and swiping its paw.

A third cat then appears, jumping between them and bats the door.

To my horror, I realise that it is the ginger cat from the park.

A feeling of unease washes over me as the door slowly closes, and it appears to me that the three cats begin to mew aggressively at one another like they're arguing over something.

I look at Taylor. She looks barely alive, her breathing so slow and shallow it's barely there, and I stroke her cheek. I expect a twitch or a murmur, or her blue eyes snapping open and smiling at me.

She doesn't even flinch.

I try it again.

Nothing.

It's like there is no one there.

There is a mewing noise and a shape appears beside me; the ginger cat is staring at me, having slipped away from the kitchen, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think it's going to speak.

It doesn't.

Instead, it walks around the back of the sofa, settles on the arm by Taylor's insert form and closes its eyes.

There is silence, except for the sporadic, frantic meowing and clattering coming from the kitchen and the two brawling cats.

A sharp intake of breath.

Taylor's head suddenly lifts up.

Her eyes still shut tight, she leans forward, lifts her arms and stretches like she's been asleep for longer than a few minutes, makes a satisfying sound that is almost a purr.

'Taylor?', I venture.

Her eyes open to look at me. They are a light brown, almost golden. Were they always that colour? I find myself asking.

She moves sudden, turning towards me in a sharp jerk, alive with excitement and energy; different from the calm, gentle person who let me in moments before, or the cool, poised and intelligent woman with whom I had shared a glass of wine with the previous week.

Taylor studies my face, like she is reading my thoughts, then winks, and asks with wry amusement, 'Can you keep a secret?'