Monday, September 8, 2008

Love At High Noon

Except it wasn’t high noon. It was eight o’clock on a quiet Sunday morning. Mr. Tubby, a mild-mannered neutered male feline of the Mancoon breed, was sitting on the front porch enjoying those things that make the morning so special; the sun filtering through the trees, a quick roll in the grass, the nibble of a tasty green leaf or crunchy brown bug, and the sense of freedom that told him he could leave this place if he wanted to, even though he’d never dream of doing such a thing,

He doesn’t get out often, Sunday mornings mostly. So as you can imagine, he savors each moment as if it were his last. It’s also his only chance each week to truly put his manly stamp on his own personal piece of paradise, to catch up on news and visit with friends, and of course, to get to see her, that cute neighborhood girl that all the guys want to dance with. She’s a wandering gypsy, a passing butterfly, a huntress of skill renowned. He can’t help but admire her lean muscular body and her quick alert mind. And he’s fascinated with her, fascinated by the life she lives, fascinated by the past he can see that she has paid for, and the mark it’s left behind, the loss of her tail. Have no doubt, when she comes to call at his window at night, he always gets up to answer.

This Sunday though, this gentle unassuming Sunday morning, her needs are greater, her desires more passionate. She needs the arms of a man, and not just any man. She needs the arms of the most handsome man she’s ever met, Mr. Tubby. She’s waited for him to come out today. And you should’ve seen it when he did. Her eagerness drew her to him like a magnet. She could no more stay away from him than she could fly to the moon. But she still keeps a respectful two inches away at all times, just like her mother taught her.

This Sunday, she isn’t going to just be cute and sweet like she usually is. Today, she’s going to be the seductress, pulling her prey inescapably towards her and then pouncing to reap its rewards. Today, she wants to hear sweet nothings whispered in her ears. Today, she wants to feel his strong arms round her shoulders. Today, they’ll kiss for the very first time.

The thought of it sends shivers down her spine. She trembles from head to paw. Her mouth salivates. He’s just so handsome. She can’t take her eyes off him. She’ll win his love today. She just knows it. She can smell it, taste it. Today is the day. He’ll see the great beauty she possesses and desire her for it. She sits up straight, like her mother taught her to do, and shows her attentiveness. She wants him to see the finely honed muscles that give her movement grace and fluidity. How could he not admire that?

Precision. She’ll show him precision by matching his every move; he sits, she sits; he looks left, she looks left; he twitches an ear, she twitches the same ear. She matches her footsteps precisely to his, stepping the same distance with the same foot, at the same time he steps, perfectly synchronized, perfectly in tune. She is so focused.

He’s beginning to get annoyed with this. It was cute at first, the way she tried to romance him. But now it’s getting old. She’s staring at him again, that constant ceaseless staring. And she’s copying his every move. There’s nowhere he can go that she’s not two inches away, staring at him, quivering with anticipation. He’s going to have to tell her to back off in a minute. She’s just too eager today. It’s a turn-off.

He ducks under the car in the driveway and settles to a comfortable crouch. Maybe he can get some peace here. She pokes her head under to follow. He tells her, “Not today, Sweetheart,” and bats her away. She backs up to a more respectful six inches away. Much better. But it really is kind-of cramped under here. It would be more comfortable inside the house, where he wouldn’t be stalked and stared at. He could take a quiet nap and maybe talk the mistress into letting him come back out again later.

He heads straight to the door and inside, his face a mask of annoyance. But she doesn’t see it. She sees only the motion of his body, his oh-so-perfect body, and the next move she needs to make to match him with precision. Six inches away become two. She can almost taste him. And then, he’s walking inside the door and out of her reach. That female he lives with comes to the door to bar her way. Just like that, he’s gone.

The expression on her face visibly drops, one moment hopeful and eager, the next, fallen into despair. How could she have lost him so soon? What did she do wrong? She tries to peek inside for one more look, but Prince Charming is gone, back behind locked doors. She gets only another insult from the female feline he lives with. She sighs, and leaves. Maybe he’ll come back out again later.

June 18, 2008

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