Cat

There’s a small thump on the kitchen table.
“What’s that?” she asks, a cat I reply.
The cat has jumped in easily through the open kitchen window and now sits, compact and at ease with itself on yesterday’s Racing Post.
“I know that” she says, and pouts slightly as she does, which I like. “But what’s it doing there? Is it your cat?”
No, I answer, truthfully.
“I hate cats” the cat yawns at her, and licks its paw. It is black, small and black. A small black cat sat on an old newspaper with a girl glaring at it. It’s like a postcard or something. “So if it’s not your cat what’s it doing here?” I shrug, and say I had no idea, which is also the truth. I am grateful to the cat though, for whilst she looks at it, and it looks at her, I can also look at her without her noticing, trace the line of her hair, the untidy flick of ginger over the nape of her neck. I want very much to kiss that neck. So we have a fine old minute or two of it, the cat and me. It gets to be the centre of attention and I don’t, which suits us both fine, I think.
She turns and I whip my eyes away from the swell of her small breasts, perceptible through a rainbow-coloured jumper. She looks younger than I remember from the night before, and her skin has that whiteness that always makes me think of princesses, though flecked with freckles. Even sexier.
I want coffee, I want a shower, I want to rub my neck where it aches from the night spent on the sofa, but any time spent making coffee and showering and rubbing my neck would be time spent facing away from her, enough time for me to melt out of her existence. Just a few more seconds, her, me, the cat. Just a few more seconds of this’ll be great.
I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
I met her last night, walking home from a long turn through the fields to think, turned into my street and there’s this figure on a bench, I make to move on and hear crying, I walk up to the figure and well if it isn’t a girl, seventeen, eighteen at a guess. Not quite young enough to be my daughter, thank Christ, not yet. A bit drunk and angry and defiant so I guess this is something to do with a young gentleman, which is probably why she says yes when I ask her if I can make her a cup of tea because otherwise she’ll catch her death.
I don’t know what she’s expecting, but she seems surprised to actually get tea.
She eyes me suspiciously when I show her the bedroom, place a clean towel out, smile at her and bid her goodnight, her reply is halting. I hear the click of the bolt, sensible girl, go downstairs and sit for a while in the dark of the kitchen. And now it’s morning and fuck me she’s beautiful, I had no idea. Big eyes. Ginger hair. A heart-shaped face. Beautiful.
The cat stretches, arching it’s back and thrusting it’s paws forward like it’s going to do a handstand any second, then it jumps off the table and disappears off upstairs. The girl snorts, evidently pleased it’s gone.
“I hate cats” she repeats, then glares up at me from under her fringe, like it’s my fault that cats exist “listen” she says at length “thanks.” I tell her she’s welcome and already I can see that the end is nigh, she’s out of here, she’s trying to find a nice way to do it. She can see that I think she’s beautiful, she’s got herself in an awkward position and she wants out. I smile at her, and try to look brave as I do it, then I hear the click of the door but I’m sure my sense of the order of events has gone fucked, because after I hear the door close I feel the brush of lips against my cheek.