Fourteen, Part One

“I miss him.”

* * *

The bowl shatters across the wall and sends porcelain shards and noodles in a cascade against the tile. Each piece, as it flies away and begins falling to the floor, disintegrates into nothingness as it gets further from Jeanette. It's as if each piece flies away into pixels. She doesn't see that though, or notice it. It's not a part of the memory; it's part of what's left of it.

“How could you fuck her? How could you do that to me?”

He's looking at her from across the counter, his eyes full of a rage as vivid as the rage she feels in herself. She knows there will be hell to pay for the broken bowl but the time for that is later. She also knows that if she doesn't express her anger now there will be much more than broken bowls tomorrow.

“It just happened. You were gone and--”

Her hands fly up from the counter where she'd rested them and she pulls her eyes away from him to look out the window behind her. There is no landscape outside but her eyes don't tell her that, only that this is what she sees. A featureless landscape of a color that is less than white and more than nothing.

“I was gone for a week! While I was telling my mother how much I fucking care about you, you were fucking her! You were inside her and I was gushing over how in love we are. At the same fucking time! How the fuck is that okay?”

“Look, I know. It's not okay but you have to understand. . .”

He trails off and she looks to him and sees that he's crying. She sees that his knuckles are white against the pale brown counter as he clutches the edge and she's no longer sure who carries more rage and desperation.

She reaches across the counter to touch his fingers. His knuckles are warm.

* * *

His hand is like a white hot iron across her face and as her head cocks sideways she can feel the imprint of each fingertip across her cheek and know that there will be an outline there tomorrow. The skin stings and burns where his hand has touched her face but the pain of the second slap is far worse.

“Baby!”

The words are more squeak than shout as they leave her lips but they're drowned out by the smack of his palm on her cheek again. She can feel him pulsing and buried deep inside her, his cock seeming to move with each contact of his hand and with each searing spasm she can feel herself contract around him.

“That's too hard. Please. . .”

She presses her knees to his sides as hard as she can as she rides him and starts to squirm from the pain. The tear of her bottom lip leaves a streak of red across his palm and she sees the blood as his hands reach to her hips and pull her down harder onto him, lifting her and bouncing her body up and off of him.

“No.”

And then she's on her back and he's holding her down. His giant hand is wrapped around her wrists above her head and his body is on top of her, pushing against her. His other hand wraps around her neck and starts to squeeze as he pounds into her, pushing her head against the wall as she chokes under his fingers. She can feel his hips shaking as he cums inside her.

* * *

Each drop of blood that falls from his fingers seems to be accompanied by a tear falling from his eyes but not a single drop of fluid touches the ground. Instead each drop seems to disappear before it can land. Each splotch, red or clear, never forms on her dress or on the floor but Jeanette neither notices it or sees it. That's not part of the memory. It's part of what is left of it.

“Baby, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I made you so angry.”

He looks up at her and his brow is furrowed, his lip quivering. “My hand. . .”

His hand is a mangled mess and around them on the floor she can see the shards of the mirror, each one reflecting her terrified face. Small slivers are stuck in his knuckles and she turns his hand over in her own, examining it. The wounds are shallow and it doesn't seem broken but it seems there is more blood than she's ever seen in one place.

“I'm so sorry baby, I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to do it. . .”

She whispers to him and wraps her arms around him and gently pulls his injured hand behind her as she does. His body is wider than her own but she manages to surround him and his head falls against her shoulder and begins to weep.

Each of his tears soak into the sleeve of her top gently and with each new drop she whispers to him again, “It's okay. It's all going to be okay.

* * *

“How can you say that? After he hurt you so much.”

“But that's is. When he hurt me was the only time I felt real.”

. . . Terminate Simulation 14 . . .

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part Three

Artino looked up at the Altairian with the gun and realized that he was tall for one of his kind. Maybe even three and a half feet even without the head scarf. He'd noticed so little about him before but now he, like everyone on the bus, was very interested in what might be going on inside the shooter's mind.

Even the man who he'd shot was looking up at him, his eyes glazed over with the pain of his wound but with his brow furrowed in confusion. The idea that a Stump might have shot him, might have hurt him, seemed to confuse him as much as anything.

For a moment Artino wondered if the tears running down the human's face were as much to do with that quandary as with the spreading pool of blood. He pushed that thought away though. The only thing to worry about now was trying to salvage the situation and possibly save his own life, as well as those of his family back home.

“My name is Artino.”

The words felt flat and stilted, even in the deep baritone of his kind, but he armed them with every bit of friendliness he could. The other Altairian looked at him again then and said, “I cannot tell you my name but you may call me Fighter.”

“Fighter.” Artino let the word roll off of his tongue and hoped that his nervousness was well hidden. He had never seen the blood of a human in person and the stench was overwhelming to his sensitive nostrils. “Why is today going to be a glorious day?”

He immediately regretted the words as he saw the face of the Fighter light up in enthusiasm.

“Today will be a glorious day for many reasons.” He paused and Artino could see his eyes narrowing in a fit of rage as his four shoulders arched backward. “Today will be the day that the Freedom Fighters of Altair show how strong we are and how strong we will be.”

And suddenly every person on the bus, human and alien, locked eyes on the one calling himself Fighter, searching in his eyes for a vague hope that the day might not end with all of their deaths.

“Listen well, Whistles.” The derogatory word for humans came out with such violence from the Fighter's face that Artino started. He'd never heard anyone use the word in the presence of one from Earth, though he imagined they all knew what the word meant. “You have taken everything we have and given nothing back. Our technology, which we offered in peace, and our culture. You mix our homeland's music with the horrible noises you call entertainment and you have fattened yourselves off the plant altering techniques we brought, but what have we gotten in return?”

He paused for effect and waved the gun in air above him before noticing that the bus was slowing down and that the driver was looking back at him as well. The barrel of the pistol came across the side of her head then and the pierce of her scream followed the small spray of blood to the back of her seat. The Fighter though, seemed to have calculated the pressure of his strike and she continued to drive, though whimpering all the while.

“We scrub your toilets and we build your terrible junk products which are too dangerous for your own weak bodies. We work for you for nothing and always under the fear that we might offend. You have turned us into slaves, but no more.”

Artino noticed the blue and red lights then, circling the bus. It seemed the driver had pushed the emergency alarm after all, though the Fighter seemed to ignore it.

“But now, now we shall--”

The man on the floor interrupted him then, his words falling from his lips as gasps of breath but loud enough to stop the Altairian.

“You won't do shit. You're just a bunch of weak willed little piss ants.” The man took a deep breath and tried to lift himself against one of the seats, only to fall back into the puddle of blood beneath him with a grunt.

“You dumb little fucks couldn't do anything with that tech anyway, dying fast as you do. We've done you a favor and if any of these assholes in the back of the bus had any balls they'd take you down now. What's the world coming to that we're letting goddamn Stumps talk to us like this. . .”

The Fighter lifted the pistol then and pointed it toward the forehead of the man, barely three feet away. The man's eyes were not on it though; he examined his knee, seemingly for the first time as he trailed off and the tall Antairian tensed.

Between his gun and the body of the human suddenly stood the body of Artino, as surprising to himself as to any other on the bus.

“No. This is not the way to do it.”

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part Two

“Now, listen. You’re going to let me on this bus, then you’re going to sit down and drive like nothing’s wrong. Understand?”


Between the beads of sweat breaking out along the bus driver’s brow and the way her eyes locked onto the barrel of the gun pressing into her cheek, Artino doubted the bus driver had understood anything the young Altairian had said at all. A nervous murmur rippled throughout the bus. Was this for real? Artino could hardly believe it himself. It was illegal for Altairians to own weapons. Any human caught selling them faced imprisonment; any Altairians caught selling or owning a gun faced the rope.

Fear gripped Artino’s stomach like a vice. If the humans managed to take that gun away, there would be no arrest and no trial. His family would find his body in a ditch on the side of the road.

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

A square-jawed man with clipped blond hair rose from his seat and strode toward the front of the bus. The young Altairian eyed him warily, but the gun remained firmly planted into the cheek of the bus driver.

“This is some kind of alien rights shit, isn’t it?” The man stopped just short of Artino, towering over them with his six feet of height. “If it is, you can take your little toy gun and march your stump ass right out of here. If you’re so damn angry about the life we let you live on Earth, just go back to your own fucking planet.”

The air in front of Artino exploded. That was the only way to describe it. One second the man was towering over them, hand raised as if he was about to strike one of them; the next, there was a sound next to his ear so loud it pierced his ear drums like a knife, and the man was one the floor, screaming and cursing and gripping his bleeding knee. The murmur turned into a chorus of screams as the humans in the front seats rose and tried to flee to the back; all three dozen human clustered around the back few rows of seats like a flock of sheep threatened by an angry dog. Blood flowed in rivets from the man’s knee, following the slight slope of the bus floor until a shallow pool of blood formed around Artino’s feet.

“Any of you try anything else, and you’ll end up worse than him,” the Altairian said. He turned back toward to the bus driver, who had fallen back in her seat and given over to panicked blubbering, tears and snot dripping off her chin as she begged him not to kill her.

“Drive. Drive until you reach the Capitol building. You stop for anything, I’ll shoot you and do it myself.”

The bus driver complied, and the doors closed behind Artino with a swoosh. The engined revved and the bus eased out of the station and onto the highway, gliding swift and silent toward disaster.
Inside, the bus was full with the sounds of whimpers and sobs. The man who threatened them had finally stopped screaming, but started to let out a low, continuous moan as he doubled up over his knee. It occurred to Artino that he should have left when he had the chance, should have jumped out the doors before they had closed, should have never stepped out of bounds in the first place, but all he could focus on was the blood. Everything other thought in his head seemed vague and muted in comparison, like hearing someone shout from the other side of a closed window.

Next to him, the Altairian slipped a small, square contraption from his coat. He flicked a switch and a small display lit up and began to count down. He turned to Artino and smiled.

“Never fear, brother. Today is a glorious day.”

Must be this Tall to Ride, Part One

The Number 14A was late. The Number 14A was always late.

Artino had taken to calling it the “Number Late-Teen A” in his thoughts but the extra twenty minute wait at the stop honestly wasn't the worst thing in the world. He always left an hour early, just in case, and the extra time to himself was always a nice reprieve from the twelve hour shifts and the monotony of home. Still, it would be nice if the bus could come on time, at least once this millennium.

But today it wasn't and after an hour and ten minutes Artino was starting to get a little antsy. If he showed up more than fifteen minutes late at the office they would dock his day's pay and still expect him to finish the shift. Not only that, he'd have to speed through cleaning the first two floor's bathrooms and bins. Not something he ever looked forward to, though doing it faster wasn't that much harder than doing it slow.

If only there were jobs closer to home; the only work for Altairians was in the city as cleaners, janitors, dishwashers, and bellboys and that meant taking the bus. No one would hire one for anything else, especially out in the suburbs and honestly, the work was pretty well suited to his kind, if degrading. Standing about three feet tall on average, their race had fallen right into the roles of servants since they'd landed on Earth thirty years ago. Not that any of those from that first wave were left alive, what with their lifespans lasting only fifteen to twenty of the local's years.

Scratching his left hind ear Artino thought of his grandfather Marcina, one of the original scouts for the first landing ships. He remembered how the old one would complain endlessly of the life they'd found here. He'd talk all day about how desperate the command crew of the massive generation ship had been and how they'd picked this planet as the only inhabitable one in range as the stocks ran low. Of course even that had been many generations before grandpa; at least 100 of the Earth years.

Second Grandmother Icknaria, though, would always stop him and say how grateful they should be that the humans had taken them in at all, what with their desperation, but the First Grandmother Asnap would scream and yell and flap her four arms about how this was no heaven, how they were all slaves, etc. etc.

Sometimes Artino was glad the old cunt was dead.

“Number 14A Bus is canceled for the next two cycles due to mechanical difficulties.”

The words started to scroll across the top of the stop as Artino was lost in sight and on the second pass he noticed them, only to stand with attention. If the bus was canceled he would not only loose his pay for the shift but he would end up being docked for the week. An entire week without pay would mean he, his three parents, two di-wives, and six children would go without food for the meantime.

Two other Arturians stood up at the same time and began to fidget nervously, edging closer to the electric rails which the buses rode on, eyeing each other and looking up at the sky as if the weather might somehow affect the bus schedules. The weather on their home world, though no Arturian had seen it in millions of their own years, had harsh enough weather to imprint on their instincts even now.

Looking to his right he noticed that one of the others on the platform was dressed a little shabbier than those who were obviously here on their way to work. That one was dressed in the same humanistic clothes as the rest of them but his were festooned with little splashes of color and a head scarf of brilliant red geometric patterns. The styles of their home world were catching on with a part of the youth, Artino had heard, especially those in the new movement for Arturian rights.

What ones weren't imprisoned or “disappeared” by the humans.

The Number 14 bus though, rolled right in on time as they fidgeted and when it did the couple of humans waiting patiently on their own bench stood up and started to walk toward it, making a point to not look down at the aliens or notice their presence at all, much less their anxiety.

Artino looked at the screen on the side of the bus emblazoned with number 14 and the time, doing the math in his head as he figured that if he could somehow take this bus he would make it on time to work, but barely. Of course he wouldn't be allowed on the 14 bus proper, that was only for humans, but maybe they would listen to his plight. Maybe this once, he'd even pay double the Arturian fair. Surely they'd take that since the human buses were free.

Rushing toward the door as it whooshed open he stood behind the two humans and after each walked aboard he lifted his small left feet to put them upon the bottom step. Mid way through though, the bus driver, an older human woman with dark skin, stood up and shouted down at him.

“Hey, don't y'all see the goddamn sign?”

Of course Artino saw it though, that sign that he'd seen so many times in so many variations. Must be this tall to ride, the words emblazoned in red against a marker at roughly three and a half feet.

“But I really have to get to work and I--” His voice the deep monotone of his race, was cut off by the woman before he could finish.

“Yeah yeah, and don't be tellin' me that shit. Sign say's y'all can't get on so back off before I call the cops.”

“But I--”

“Hey, stumps, let me tell you--”

And quicker than either one could register there was the one in the shabby clothes and the Arturian scarft between the two of them staring up at the woman on the steps with her angry eyes and shouting in the same deeply baritone voice as Artino, “Who you callin' stumps, huh sec-mo fucker?”

“Y'all better back off 'fore the cops get here. I just pushed the panic button and you. . .”

But she went silent when the other one's second left arm came out holding the gun and reaching out toward her head with the barrel pressed nearly against her cheek.

“What now, whistle?”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 3)

“But it's good just to see Rachel with someone who isn't a disinterested prick. She's always ended up with these passive aggressive men who made me nervous but this guy seems to treat her well, at least. And he's very handsome.”

“You humans are silly.”

“And cat's aren't? What do you know anyway?”

Some where around this time Elizabeth began to remember that she was talking to her house cat and perhaps she'd lost her mind. Still, she marveled, it's amazing how quickly a person can get used to the surreal.

“And speaking of that, how the hell do you know about Sailor Moon?”

“Don't look at me, I'm just a cat. Probably just a figment of your quickly debilitating mind.”

“And what does that mean?”

She suddenly stood up in disgust and found her hands on her hips looking down at the tabby. Elizabeth was by nature a good-hearted and quiet person but to be insulted to so effectively was enough to give rise to even her pride.

“Again, I'm just a cat.” Piddles paused to lick his genitals again, his legs splayed in the air, “But come on. You're what, twenty eight? That's like eight million in cat years and you live alone, you work at a library, and you're talking to your goddamn cat.”

The pot of water chose that moment to boil over and Elizabeth walked over to turn the burner down, her eyes narrowed and looking towards Piddles. “Well, I don't normally do that, but you're talking back today.”

Again, she thought, it's amazing how quickly you get used to these things.

“Uh huh. Remember, I've been here the whole time. As I was saying,” Again the cat paused to lick a particularly pungent part of his bum, “You live alone, talk to your cat all damn day and, pardon my forwardness, but when's the last time you had a guy over?”

“Well, there was Brad. . .”

Brad, tall and balding and never quite sure what to do with his tongue, whether it be in his mouth or other places. Brad who came over twice and then stopped returning her calls.

“Yeah, Brad. I may be a cat but that guy was a goddamn stray. And really? How many years was that in human terms? I was still a spring chicken, is all I know.”

“It wasn't that long ago!”

“Yeah, and what about Mark?”

Mark, his broad shoulders and his hairy forearms which flexed in that special little way when he slipped her the paper with his number on it. The number she'd thrown away wondering how any man could ever be so forward as to slip his number to the librarian.

“How do you know about Mark?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I heard about him from you for like two weeks and that one night when you kept moaning his name while played with that blue vibratey thing--”

“Hey!” Elizabeth stomped her foot on the ground and yelled at the cat, her anger finally up and the sound of the knife on the cutting board a resounding whack as she slammed it down. “That's none of your business! And you chewed the damn thing up anyway!”

“Eh, I was never that interested in your damn sex life anyway and I didn't chew it up for the taste. It just kept jumping around under your pillow.”

“You little ungrateful. . . Turd!” She waved the knife at him then, slinging it around like a pointer as she yelled. “I feed you and I scoop your. . . your shit,” Elizabeth puffed her chest a little then, proud to have gotten her anger across, “and you talk to me like this.”

“Hey, I'm just a cat remember? Just a figment of your imagination, but I'm just saying maybe you should get out more. Maybe call your friends occasionally when you're not just desperate for help.”

*** All around me are familiar faces; Worn out places, worn out faces ***

“And stop listening to such depressing music!”

Hearing the ring-tone Elizabeth picked up her phone and saw Rachel's face on the screen again but this time it was her and Ian looking longfully at one another, Rachel's lips a bright red and his cheek wearing a crimson imprint. Of course she changed her Facebook picture to some sappy crap like that, she couldn't help but think as she picked up the phone and looked at the little icon, wondering if she should answer.

Looking at Piddles again, licking his privates once more, she idly picked a piece of the pineapple from its can and started to munch on it before she finally swiped the “answer” icon to the right.

“Meeoorrww?”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 2)

Elizabeth sat up with her knees to her chest, a bundle of plaid flannel as she kept an eye on Mr. Piddles on the other side of the room, clawing aimlessly at his cat-scratcher like nothing had happened. Her hands shook as she hit the icon of a young Asian woman with her cheeks blown up like a puffer fish on her phone’s screen.

“Elizabeth?” An audible gasp escaped Elizabeth’s mouth at the sound of Mr. Piddles’… voice.

“Elizabeth, I’m still hungry. Really I am.“

The phone was ringing. Mr. Piddles was still staring. Elizabeth told herself to calm down. That she was a grown woman for Christ’s sake… switch was awkward because she didn’t rightly believe in Christ. Until a few minutes ago she didn’t believe in talking cats either but here she was now. “Maybe my cat’s possessed by a demon-”

“Uh- is that you ‘Liza?” It was a man’s voice on the phone.

Elizabeth was confused for a moment, looking to the side. “Oh, that’s you Ian,” she said finally.

“Yeah, Rache is on the toilet,” he said, “She’ll be out in a sec.”

“Oh. Good. Yes,” stammered Elizabeth. “Yes. Good.”

Ian laughed. “So what’s this about a demon?”

“Demon!?” Shit. Mr. Piddles had disappeared from view. Elizabeth climbed up higher on her armchair.

“You ok?” asked Ian.

“Fine!” she blurted.

“Yeah… hey! Here’s Rache! Bye, ‘Liza!” he sounded all too glad to hand over the phone.

“…Stop making faces, Ian. Hey, Elizabeth?” This was Rachel. “What’s up?”

“L-look I need to ask you something,” Elizabeth was still scanning the room for her large, misplaced tabby, “And it’s going to sound crazy.”

“Okay. What is- hey stop it, Ian!” Rachel was giggling.

Elizabeth knew that giggle. It was the same giggle Rachel always had when she and Ian were ready to go home after a night downtown. They weren’t going to bed. “Can you two stop screwing around for two seconds?!”

“Geez, Elizabeth,” sighed Rachel, “Can you calm down?”

“No I can’t calm down! I have a crisis on my hands!”

“Meeeooorrrw.“

Elizabeth snapped around in the direction of the sound but Mr. Piddles was nowhere to be seen.

“Crisis? What sort of crisis?”

“Do you remember that show, Sabrina the Teenage Witch?”

“Yeah? So?”

“You remember Salem? That talking black cat?”

“Yeah, he was great. What are you getting at, Elizabeth?”

“… do you think cats can talk?”

A roar of laughter exploded out of the phone, so sudden Elizabeth almost dropped it. Rachel tried to talk through her gasps for air but failed. That failure only lead to more giggling her part. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she heard the panted breathing of her friend between what she assumed was Ian’s kisses. “…Ian…” she breathed.

That was enough of that; Elizabeth promptly hit the end call button and sighed. “Gross.” Maybe it wasn’t so gross. It had just been a while for Elizabeth. Too long. This wasn’t helping, especially not with her crisis.

“So are they actually a couple or just fuck-buddies?“

Elizabeth screamed, jumping up into the air and tumbling herself and the chair over onto the floor, knocking over a lamp. Elizabeth rubbed her head and was glad not to feel any blood.
“Are you alright?“

Elizabeth sat up. Mr. Piddles was right in front of her, his tail playfully swishing back and forth. Her mouth was open but she didn’t know what to say.

“Do you need more pineapples too?” he asked, “The effect doesn’t last very long, does it?“

“The… effect?” Elizabeth pondered this for a moment. “The pineapple make you talk?”

Mr. Piddles licked his tiny paw at the end of his chubby leg and wiped down his forehead. “Isn’t it obvious? What, did you think that I was going to turn you into a Sailor Scout or something?“

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. “I love Sailor Moon!”

“I know!” Mr. Piddles chuckled to himself. “But I’m too old to be Luna.”

“Ah… I see,” Elizabeth was little disappointed. Then she figured it was perhaps a little too much to hope that a woman her age could go traipsing downtown in a miniskirt fighting the forces of evil. That kind of stuff only happened to teenagers… with attitude. Then Elizabeth’s mouth pinched together in a determined pout. What was she thinking? ‘A woman her age’?! She was in the prime of her life! Living on her own and her freelance web design was really beginning to pick up! She was not only her own boss but the boss of her own life! She looked down at Mr. Piddles and smiled; heck she was more or less a teenage witch anyway.

“So what are they, anyway?” asked Mr. Piddles.

“Who? Rachel and Ian?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “They say they aren’t putting labels on anything yet, but they practically live together.”

Mr. Piddles nodded pensively. “Seems silly.”

“Tell me about it.”

Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 1)

“Hey, Mr. Piddles.”

Elizabeth closed the door behind her locking both deadbolts without thinking, the second and larger one closing with a solid “thunk” accompanied by the sound of Mr. Piddles yowling.

“I know you're hungry little guy, it'll just be a second, okay?”

“Meoooooooowrr.”

“Ah!”

Tangled between her feet for the briefest of moments the big tabby dodged down the hallway oblivious to its owners near demise. Stumbling, she grabbed the old railing along the hallway wall and steadied herself, grateful that the cat hadn't caused her yet another bruise.

“I swear Mr. Piddles, if I fed you as much as you'd like I would just have to clean up more of your little vomits.”

Hanging her keys on the holder by the door though she could hear the cat's scratching at the bin where she kept the food, his yowls echoing down the hallway from the kitchen. She put her big purse, the one that always felt self-concious about looking as much like it did like an old ladies, on the little table like she always did and walked there, her first stop the big plastic bin she kept the Friskies in. Mr. Piddles had a habit of chewing through nearly anything which lacked at least a quarter inch of plastic.

The tinkling of the food in the little porcelain dish sent him into a frenzy of course, his head bobbing around and trying its best to block the food from falling.

“Always hungry, huh Mr. Piddles. You silly little poody pood.”

“Crunch, crunch.”

The top priority taken care of and Mr. Piddles silent but for the sound of his chewing, Elizabeth Spiller slipped her shoes off beside the stove as she did every day and walked on to the bedroom right off the “kitchen.” Honestly, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were all just one room attached to the bedroom and a tiny bathroom but she liked to differenciate them in her head. It made it easier thinking each corner of the studio were separate. Like she had more of a real house and not such a tiny apartment.

It made it easier for her to accept the fact that she was living in such a place even at thirty two. Living in a tiny apartment and still working at the bookstore for so many years. She wouldn't let herself count how many. Not today. The last time she'd counted the years she'd had one to many glasses of wine and she'd had to be escorted from the party by a nice young gentlemen without the best of intentions.

“It's not such a bad life though; I like all this space to myself.” She paused, staring off at the window who's curtains were always drawn. “Though I really should stop talking to myself so much.”

Her shoes there in the little place reserved for them by the stove, her purse by the door, her button down blouse pulled from her shoulders and laid gently in the dirty laundry basket, never more than half full. Her slacks next to them soon and her pajamas pulled from the top cubby of her dresser and soon pulled over her soft pale legs. These were all things as they should be and comforting. The plaid of her cotton sleeping clothes warm against her as she walked towards the stove again and saw the clock above it glowing its gentle green 07:16.

“Slurp. Meeeeooorrrw.”

“Oh Piddles, you're so silly”

Opening the compartment at the bottom of the stove to pull out the little frying pan she petted the cat, scratching him behind the ears.

“Not that you would care, you silly pood, but tonight the menu calls for pineapple curry. Mindy at work said it was quite good mixed in with the sauce and so I thought I'd try it.” Scratching him again behind the ears as he tried his best to push the pan out of her hand with his head she went on, “I thought I'd take a walk on the wild side. Scandal, right?”

Chuckling, she put the pan to the eye as she turned it on and began to assemble the onions and tofu from the fridge before pulling the can of diced pineapple from the pantry. Of course the sound of the can opener would send Piddles into a frenzy but that couldn't be helped. Fighting him away she opened the can, drained it and sat it down on the other side of the stove before turning to the vegetables on the cutting board.

“Silly cat. I promise it's not tuna.”

Of course the onions make her cry though, so she went to grab a preemptive tissue before cutting them only to find the cat's head buried in the big can of pineapple chunks, his whiskers sticking out around the edge.

“Piddles! What are you doing?”

Slapping him on the back of the head as she shouted at him, he pulled his head up and licked his little lips as if he'd just had the finest, freshest tuna.

“What? You weren't eating it.”

“That doesn't matter Mr. Piddles! You can't even digest that stuff, you silly cat!”

“Who are you calling silly? I'm just hungry.”

“Wait. . .”

Freezing, Elizabeth looked at the cat and his lips moving as if in speech, the words traveling as surely through the air towards her as hers had traveled towards him. His tongue still flicking over his lips and licking his chops.

“Pineapples, am I right?”