LFN: Do You Remember (6/9)
Title: Do You Remember (6/9)
Series: One Line (1/26)
Character(s): Michael Samuelle, Walter, Birkoff, OCs, cat
fanfic100 Prompt: 47 - heart
Length: 2,686
Rating: PG-13 overall
Disclaimer: I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's keep it that way.
Summary: Walter has a plan.
Notes: this is a pre-S1 story. I have a rudimentary timeline for the series. If you would like to read the other stories in this series or the other fanfic100 stories, my prompt table is here. You can read the other parts here: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 7, part 8, part 9.
§§§
There’s a note in her voice he doesn’t know how to interpret. Unable to see her face, her body gives no possible double meaning to her words. “What do you want to know?” she’s said. It’s disconcerting not to know whether she means it or not. He takes a slow deep breath and fixes her bent head in the crosshairs of his sight as the world drops away.
“Let me put my pants on!”
Amana quickly unbuttoned the faded, oversized man’s shirt she was using as an apron over her black tank top and felt it slip down her bare arms. She left it where it fell as she passed from the tiny kitchen into the somewhat larger dining area. She pulled her jeans off the back of the nearest chair where she’d left them to wait, and took a moment to step into them. From the half-wall separating the dining area from the snug apartment she picked up the Browning Hi-Power, clicking the safety off as she entered what passed as her foyer and office-space. She glanced up at the clock over her computer desk and frowned. The pernil in the oven was supposed to be ready soon. Hopefully the Browning was overkill, but just in case…
A sharp right turn in the foyer and an admonishment that “I’m coming!” had her walking down a hallway as long as the foyer was wide - which made it dim without the overhead light on - toward her door. Tactically it wasn’t her ideal setup: Though there was space on either side of her door, for no architectural reason she could pinpoint, she would have preferred more. She would have preferred the door to be set into a long wide wall for maneuverability’s sake, but you made do with what you had. Or so O’Neal had said that first day as he’d looked her up and down.
For about two feet on the hinge-side of the door, on the right, the hall opened out another five inches or so. Amana squeezed herself into that space. If someone forced the door open it would swing harmlessly in front of her position while offering her a modicum of protection. It could also be effectively used to pin her down, but it was a risk she was willing to take.
Switching the Browning from her right to her left hand, she awkwardly reached out and placed the muzzle against the door at about where she thought she’d hit a man’s center body mass. She spoke to the facing wall when she called out, “Who is it?”
“Birkoff.”
“Who’s with you?”
There was a sound of shoes being scuffed against the tile outside her door and some shifting of bodies. She hoped they’d make up their minds soon. One handed and in an awkward position, not to mention holding her weapon in the wrong hand, was a strain on her arm.
“It’s a surprise, Sugar.”
Smiling and shaking her head, she let the Browning drop to her side and stepped out of her corner to disengage the locks. She half-stepped back into her corner to let the men in unobstructed - and, theoretically, still be able to shoot unwanted guests.
“Walter, you old coot, what’re you guys doing…here…?” The words slipped from her lips as if they had been forgotten as a third, broad body filled the hall. Amana felt her trigger finger itch, if only as an instinctual reaction to her surprise. It took her longer than it should have to lock the door, but that was because she wasn’t good at hiding her thoughts from others. Better to let the door do it for her. She’d always lacked, or disdained, a certain amount of subtlety. Sometimes that served her. A lot of times, especially now in Section, it didn’t. She was certain this moment fell into the latter category.
They were ranged out from the foyer back into the hall when Amana turned around. Thumbing the safety on the Browning, she held it lightly by her side as she slipped past one man then the other until she too was in the foyer facing the three of them. “Well this is unexpected.” She trained her eyes on Birkoff, standing front and center. Her estimation of him was falling far and fast. “I thought the deal was making dinner. For you. To have at Section.”
Shifting on his feet under Amana’s scrutiny, he pushed his glasses up and started to mutter something about the terms of their agreement.
Walter took pity on the younger man - or perhaps on his own hunger - and stepped in front of him. “Don’t blame Birkoff, Sugar. I heard about the arrangement you two had going and I couldn’t help but think of homemade arroz y habichuelas con pollo, flautas-”
“Flautas are Mexican, Walter. I’m Dominican.”
“Okay, well then plantainos, cubanos-”
“Cubans are sandwich, Walter. Or a bunch of disgruntled ex-pats.”
“Look, girl, I’m hungry. What do you want from me? Nice music by the way.” He placed his right hand over his belly, swung his hips and started singing along.
Amana laughed at that, shaking her head. “I guess I want you to make yourself comfortable. Gimme your coats. I’ll put them on the bed.”
“Ooh-”
“Don’t start, you,” she broke in as she draped Birkoff’s battered army surplus coat over her left arm.
“Expecting company?”
Amana looked up and past Walter’s head, then followed the pointed stare back to her left hand. She’d transferred the Browning there so she could take the coats. Eyebrow raised, she reached for Walter’s coat. “No. Hence the weapon.”
He was ready with his coat when she reached him and he draped it over her laden arm.
The Browning she put back in it’s spot on the half-wall dividing her small apartment when she emerged from the bedroom. She stood facing the half-wall, and thus the tiny dining area and the small kitchen beyond it, and took a deep breath. She went into the living room - a good sized space all things considered - and smiled at her uninvited guests. “Anybody want anything? Like I said, I wasn’t expecting company and dinner won’t be done for a bit still.”
Three pairs of male eyes turned on her and she was suddenly aware that she was alone in a small apartment with three men. Sure only two of them could have been considered a threat, and of them only one whom she thought dangerous - but it was bad street sense to be the only woman in a room full of men unless you knew them very, very well.
“Any of you hombres want something to drink?” she asked, arms loose at her sides. “I've got water, fruit juice, beer, sel-”
“Beer'd be lovely, Sugar.”
Amana rolled her eyes. “How'd I guess. Anyway, I also have a bottle of Merlot I've been wanting to pop so if we have any takers…” She offered them a half-smile and waited.
“What kind of juice do you have?” Birkoff asked, pushing his glasses up on his face.
Amana gave him a look but said, “Apple, orange…this fruit smoothie thing… Doesn't really go with pernil though. Save it for dessert.”
His face blanked. “Oh. Uh…”
“I'll start you off with water. And-”
“The Merlot. Please.”
“Should've guessed,” she muttered jamming her hands into her back pockets. Amana turned on her heel and strode out of the room, tossing over her shoulder, “So is there anyone else I should know about.”
Walter coughed.
Amana’s shoulders drew together.
“Well now that ya mention it, Sug-”
“Whatever happened to privacy and plausible deniability?” she demanded, rounding on him.
“Actually-”
“Shut it, Birkoff.” Her personal estimation of him had fallen far. “Who else is coming to this impromptu house party?”
“Just Walter's girlfriend.”
Amana glowered at him and Birkoff remembered that he'd been adjourned from speaking.
“All right, Walter, since you apparently also live here you get to help me serve. C’mon…get up…”
The old man didn’t need the encouragement. Not if the gleam in his eye meant anything. “Been meanin’ t’tell ya, Amana…this is some place ya got. Kitchen’s a mite tiny-”
“Don’t you ever bring Michael to my house ever again.”
Walter raised his hands; whether in self-defense or surrender she didn’t care. “Whoa, Sugar, what’s this about?” His voice dropped to match her hissed whisper. “You were the one who said-”
“I know what I said. That wasn’t an open ticket to use me as your…your…your group therapy session! This is my house! Michael is dangerous-”
“He’s not dangerous. And I thought you weren’t afraid of him.”
“No, but I am practical. He didn’t like that I was prying, and even you have to admit he’s been fu…” She wrestled with the words. “…freakin’ unstable. How is having him over for dinner going to help with that?!”
“Well it seemed like a good idea at the time!”
Amana stepped out of his personal space. “I know Michael is important to you. I know you’re concerned and that you’re just trying to help him but…” She shook her head. “I only cared what happened to him because you care. Otherwise I’d be more happy to stay the heaven away from him and have him stay away from me. And it has nothing to do with being afraid of him, though I’ll admit to having a healthy fear. Look, if it hadn’t been for you it’s likely our paths wouldn’t’ve ever crossed and I’d’ve been perfectly happy with that.”
Turning away before Walter could reply, Amana went to the stove and checked on the pernil.
“Smells good, Sugar.”
“It should. It’s roast pork.” She stood. “If you get the bottle water and beers out of the fridge I’ll grab the wine and glass.”
“Sure thing.”
Amana followed Walter back into the living room carrying the promised bottle of wine and a single glass. She set them down in front of Michael as Walter groaned and complained about having to bend over. “No one told you to use the tray,” she teased. “I thought real men didn’t use serving trays.”
“Yeah well this real man had a momma who raised him right,” was his answer as he fished the bottle opener from his Swiss Army knife. “And a daddy in the army.”
That got a laugh out of two of them. Smiling, Birkoff pushed back his glasses with one hand and raised his bottled water with the other. “To a good idea despite bad timing.”
Walter and Amana groaned. “To better speeches,” Walter said.
“To better speeches!”
The doorbell rang as they touched bottles and glass. Amana knocked back a quick gulp of her beer then placed it softly on the coffee table. Indicating that they should be quiet, she stood. A short detour to the dining area found the Browning in her hands and her striding toward the door. “One minute.”
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that perhaps she shouldn’t have the music so loud. As it was, half her floor was probably wondering who or what a querida was. But just as it’d been too late when she’d gone to open the door the first time - well it couldn’t be helped.
“Who is it?”
“Jackie… Walter’s girlfriend?”
Amana glanced back at the old man from her tight corner. He nodded. “Let’er in, Sugar. Dinner won’t be nearly as much fun without her.”
§§§
Michael said softly, “Something’s burning.”
Swearing, Amana jumped up and rushed out of the room.
Walter covered Birkoff’s ears when the swearing became both colorful and artistic. “I think you’re too young for this, kid.”
Scowling, the young man yanked his friend hands from his ears. Jackie, sitting on the day bed that served as both a couch and guest bed, clapped her hands and laughed. Which did little to improve Birkoff’s mood. “I can’t even understand her,” he protested.
“And that’s what makes it so funny!” she snorted.
Amana returned, expletives still dripping, muttered, from her mouth. “Well the mofongo is a lost cause-”
Walter groaned.
“But the rice will be ready in a minute. We can eat then.” She turned on her heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
True to her word, Walter, Birkoff and Jackie were serving themselves five minutes later, laughing as they tried to maneuver in a kitchen not meant to see so much activity at once. Watching, Michael stood just outside the threshold in the dark dining area. Amana, he knew, stood beyond him, leaning on the support pillar of the half-wall that divided the dining area from the rest of the apartment. The Browning was still there. Or it had been when he’d passed her into the dark space, but he hadn’t heard her move and-
“Your turn, Michael.”
He took the plate Walter was offering and murmured a soft thank you.
“You too, Sug.”
Birkoff studiously avoided his eyes when he passed.
“Cook eats last, Walter.”
Jackie gave him a bright, quick, smile.
Amana and Walter were still arguing good-naturedly, from what Michael could hear, as he began filling up his plate, surprising himself with his hunger. It sounded, though, as if Walter had already begun eating. He glanced over the door of the refrigerator to see her standing in the half dark, shapes in the dining area gleaming dully.
They passed each other wordlessly when he was done.
§§§
“Didn’t know you had a cat, Amana?”
“I don’t,” she said as the big white tom leapt up into her lap, sniffed at her still greasy hands then butted against Jackie’s arm. “I pet sit for a neighbor down the hall. She has Cofax here and Zippy, a corgi. They spent most of last month in my house and now think they own the joint. Hey…watch it, senor.” The cat had begun licking at the plate in her lap. “Zippy would be in here too, but he can’t do the balcony the way Cofax can.” She looked up from the cat’s green eyes. “No one here’s allergic, right? I can just send him back-”
“Oh no!” Jackie protested as she moved closer to stroke his white fur. “Don’t send him back. We’ve all had our shots.”
A gleam in his eye, Walter countered with a quick, “Speak for yourself. I’m sure there’s a few shots I’ve missed.”
Birkoff snorted. “Unlikely. Has he ever told you about the time in Panama…”
§§§
While the cat made himself comfortable across Jackie’s lap - letting her stroke his white fur, nipping at her fingers when she failed to scratch him in a way that befitted a guest in his home - Michael stood and began collecting empty glasses and bottles, plates and utensils, piling them up on one of the trays. When Amana half-rose from the daybed-turned-sofa to help him, he waved her away with his still free hand.
A moment later a burst of raucous laughter sent the white cat leaping from Jackie’s lap to twine around Michael’s ankles. He shifted his hips to keep from tripping as the cat managed to wind around his legs despite his forward motion. It gave up, however, to dart for the kitchen. He followed. The sound of Walter’s and Birkoff’s competitive storytelling rising and falling like an incoming tide lapping at his back.
The cat was sitting very determinedly in front of a central cupboard by the floor. Michael ignored it, noting the odd way sound from the living room was muted in the kitchen despite their proximity, setting the dirty dishes into the sink instead. Only then did he bend down to satisfy the cat. Who promptly darted into the dim dining area, glowing like a fuzzy beacon as he hunched in the dark.
Following, Michael was reminded that Simone had wanted a cat but worried about what would happen to it if one of them died, and that Elena also wanted a cat, but was allergic. They were considering getting a dog for Adam when he was old enough…
He paused in pouring the dry pet food. The cat, Cofax, butted against his hand.
He resumed pouring.
Next Part
Series: One Line (1/26)
Character(s): Michael Samuelle, Walter, Birkoff, OCs, cat
fanfic100 Prompt: 47 - heart
Length: 2,686
Rating: PG-13 overall
Disclaimer: I don't know you. You don't know me. Let's keep it that way.
Summary: Walter has a plan.
Notes: this is a pre-S1 story. I have a rudimentary timeline for the series. If you would like to read the other stories in this series or the other fanfic100 stories, my prompt table is here. You can read the other parts here: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 7, part 8, part 9.
§§§
There’s a note in her voice he doesn’t know how to interpret. Unable to see her face, her body gives no possible double meaning to her words. “What do you want to know?” she’s said. It’s disconcerting not to know whether she means it or not. He takes a slow deep breath and fixes her bent head in the crosshairs of his sight as the world drops away.
“Let me put my pants on!”
Amana quickly unbuttoned the faded, oversized man’s shirt she was using as an apron over her black tank top and felt it slip down her bare arms. She left it where it fell as she passed from the tiny kitchen into the somewhat larger dining area. She pulled her jeans off the back of the nearest chair where she’d left them to wait, and took a moment to step into them. From the half-wall separating the dining area from the snug apartment she picked up the Browning Hi-Power, clicking the safety off as she entered what passed as her foyer and office-space. She glanced up at the clock over her computer desk and frowned. The pernil in the oven was supposed to be ready soon. Hopefully the Browning was overkill, but just in case…
A sharp right turn in the foyer and an admonishment that “I’m coming!” had her walking down a hallway as long as the foyer was wide - which made it dim without the overhead light on - toward her door. Tactically it wasn’t her ideal setup: Though there was space on either side of her door, for no architectural reason she could pinpoint, she would have preferred more. She would have preferred the door to be set into a long wide wall for maneuverability’s sake, but you made do with what you had. Or so O’Neal had said that first day as he’d looked her up and down.
For about two feet on the hinge-side of the door, on the right, the hall opened out another five inches or so. Amana squeezed herself into that space. If someone forced the door open it would swing harmlessly in front of her position while offering her a modicum of protection. It could also be effectively used to pin her down, but it was a risk she was willing to take.
Switching the Browning from her right to her left hand, she awkwardly reached out and placed the muzzle against the door at about where she thought she’d hit a man’s center body mass. She spoke to the facing wall when she called out, “Who is it?”
“Birkoff.”
“Who’s with you?”
There was a sound of shoes being scuffed against the tile outside her door and some shifting of bodies. She hoped they’d make up their minds soon. One handed and in an awkward position, not to mention holding her weapon in the wrong hand, was a strain on her arm.
“It’s a surprise, Sugar.”
Smiling and shaking her head, she let the Browning drop to her side and stepped out of her corner to disengage the locks. She half-stepped back into her corner to let the men in unobstructed - and, theoretically, still be able to shoot unwanted guests.
“Walter, you old coot, what’re you guys doing…here…?” The words slipped from her lips as if they had been forgotten as a third, broad body filled the hall. Amana felt her trigger finger itch, if only as an instinctual reaction to her surprise. It took her longer than it should have to lock the door, but that was because she wasn’t good at hiding her thoughts from others. Better to let the door do it for her. She’d always lacked, or disdained, a certain amount of subtlety. Sometimes that served her. A lot of times, especially now in Section, it didn’t. She was certain this moment fell into the latter category.
They were ranged out from the foyer back into the hall when Amana turned around. Thumbing the safety on the Browning, she held it lightly by her side as she slipped past one man then the other until she too was in the foyer facing the three of them. “Well this is unexpected.” She trained her eyes on Birkoff, standing front and center. Her estimation of him was falling far and fast. “I thought the deal was making dinner. For you. To have at Section.”
Shifting on his feet under Amana’s scrutiny, he pushed his glasses up and started to mutter something about the terms of their agreement.
Walter took pity on the younger man - or perhaps on his own hunger - and stepped in front of him. “Don’t blame Birkoff, Sugar. I heard about the arrangement you two had going and I couldn’t help but think of homemade arroz y habichuelas con pollo, flautas-”
“Flautas are Mexican, Walter. I’m Dominican.”
“Okay, well then plantainos, cubanos-”
“Cubans are sandwich, Walter. Or a bunch of disgruntled ex-pats.”
“Look, girl, I’m hungry. What do you want from me? Nice music by the way.” He placed his right hand over his belly, swung his hips and started singing along.
Amana laughed at that, shaking her head. “I guess I want you to make yourself comfortable. Gimme your coats. I’ll put them on the bed.”
“Ooh-”
“Don’t start, you,” she broke in as she draped Birkoff’s battered army surplus coat over her left arm.
“Expecting company?”
Amana looked up and past Walter’s head, then followed the pointed stare back to her left hand. She’d transferred the Browning there so she could take the coats. Eyebrow raised, she reached for Walter’s coat. “No. Hence the weapon.”
He was ready with his coat when she reached him and he draped it over her laden arm.
The Browning she put back in it’s spot on the half-wall dividing her small apartment when she emerged from the bedroom. She stood facing the half-wall, and thus the tiny dining area and the small kitchen beyond it, and took a deep breath. She went into the living room - a good sized space all things considered - and smiled at her uninvited guests. “Anybody want anything? Like I said, I wasn’t expecting company and dinner won’t be done for a bit still.”
Three pairs of male eyes turned on her and she was suddenly aware that she was alone in a small apartment with three men. Sure only two of them could have been considered a threat, and of them only one whom she thought dangerous - but it was bad street sense to be the only woman in a room full of men unless you knew them very, very well.
“Any of you hombres want something to drink?” she asked, arms loose at her sides. “I've got water, fruit juice, beer, sel-”
“Beer'd be lovely, Sugar.”
Amana rolled her eyes. “How'd I guess. Anyway, I also have a bottle of Merlot I've been wanting to pop so if we have any takers…” She offered them a half-smile and waited.
“What kind of juice do you have?” Birkoff asked, pushing his glasses up on his face.
Amana gave him a look but said, “Apple, orange…this fruit smoothie thing… Doesn't really go with pernil though. Save it for dessert.”
His face blanked. “Oh. Uh…”
“I'll start you off with water. And-”
“The Merlot. Please.”
“Should've guessed,” she muttered jamming her hands into her back pockets. Amana turned on her heel and strode out of the room, tossing over her shoulder, “So is there anyone else I should know about.”
Walter coughed.
Amana’s shoulders drew together.
“Well now that ya mention it, Sug-”
“Whatever happened to privacy and plausible deniability?” she demanded, rounding on him.
“Actually-”
“Shut it, Birkoff.” Her personal estimation of him had fallen far. “Who else is coming to this impromptu house party?”
“Just Walter's girlfriend.”
Amana glowered at him and Birkoff remembered that he'd been adjourned from speaking.
“All right, Walter, since you apparently also live here you get to help me serve. C’mon…get up…”
The old man didn’t need the encouragement. Not if the gleam in his eye meant anything. “Been meanin’ t’tell ya, Amana…this is some place ya got. Kitchen’s a mite tiny-”
“Don’t you ever bring Michael to my house ever again.”
Walter raised his hands; whether in self-defense or surrender she didn’t care. “Whoa, Sugar, what’s this about?” His voice dropped to match her hissed whisper. “You were the one who said-”
“I know what I said. That wasn’t an open ticket to use me as your…your…your group therapy session! This is my house! Michael is dangerous-”
“He’s not dangerous. And I thought you weren’t afraid of him.”
“No, but I am practical. He didn’t like that I was prying, and even you have to admit he’s been fu…” She wrestled with the words. “…freakin’ unstable. How is having him over for dinner going to help with that?!”
“Well it seemed like a good idea at the time!”
Amana stepped out of his personal space. “I know Michael is important to you. I know you’re concerned and that you’re just trying to help him but…” She shook her head. “I only cared what happened to him because you care. Otherwise I’d be more happy to stay the heaven away from him and have him stay away from me. And it has nothing to do with being afraid of him, though I’ll admit to having a healthy fear. Look, if it hadn’t been for you it’s likely our paths wouldn’t’ve ever crossed and I’d’ve been perfectly happy with that.”
Turning away before Walter could reply, Amana went to the stove and checked on the pernil.
“Smells good, Sugar.”
“It should. It’s roast pork.” She stood. “If you get the bottle water and beers out of the fridge I’ll grab the wine and glass.”
“Sure thing.”
Amana followed Walter back into the living room carrying the promised bottle of wine and a single glass. She set them down in front of Michael as Walter groaned and complained about having to bend over. “No one told you to use the tray,” she teased. “I thought real men didn’t use serving trays.”
“Yeah well this real man had a momma who raised him right,” was his answer as he fished the bottle opener from his Swiss Army knife. “And a daddy in the army.”
That got a laugh out of two of them. Smiling, Birkoff pushed back his glasses with one hand and raised his bottled water with the other. “To a good idea despite bad timing.”
Walter and Amana groaned. “To better speeches,” Walter said.
“To better speeches!”
The doorbell rang as they touched bottles and glass. Amana knocked back a quick gulp of her beer then placed it softly on the coffee table. Indicating that they should be quiet, she stood. A short detour to the dining area found the Browning in her hands and her striding toward the door. “One minute.”
It occurred to her, not for the first time, that perhaps she shouldn’t have the music so loud. As it was, half her floor was probably wondering who or what a querida was. But just as it’d been too late when she’d gone to open the door the first time - well it couldn’t be helped.
“Who is it?”
“Jackie… Walter’s girlfriend?”
Amana glanced back at the old man from her tight corner. He nodded. “Let’er in, Sugar. Dinner won’t be nearly as much fun without her.”
§§§
Michael said softly, “Something’s burning.”
Swearing, Amana jumped up and rushed out of the room.
Walter covered Birkoff’s ears when the swearing became both colorful and artistic. “I think you’re too young for this, kid.”
Scowling, the young man yanked his friend hands from his ears. Jackie, sitting on the day bed that served as both a couch and guest bed, clapped her hands and laughed. Which did little to improve Birkoff’s mood. “I can’t even understand her,” he protested.
“And that’s what makes it so funny!” she snorted.
Amana returned, expletives still dripping, muttered, from her mouth. “Well the mofongo is a lost cause-”
Walter groaned.
“But the rice will be ready in a minute. We can eat then.” She turned on her heel and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
True to her word, Walter, Birkoff and Jackie were serving themselves five minutes later, laughing as they tried to maneuver in a kitchen not meant to see so much activity at once. Watching, Michael stood just outside the threshold in the dark dining area. Amana, he knew, stood beyond him, leaning on the support pillar of the half-wall that divided the dining area from the rest of the apartment. The Browning was still there. Or it had been when he’d passed her into the dark space, but he hadn’t heard her move and-
“Your turn, Michael.”
He took the plate Walter was offering and murmured a soft thank you.
“You too, Sug.”
Birkoff studiously avoided his eyes when he passed.
“Cook eats last, Walter.”
Jackie gave him a bright, quick, smile.
Amana and Walter were still arguing good-naturedly, from what Michael could hear, as he began filling up his plate, surprising himself with his hunger. It sounded, though, as if Walter had already begun eating. He glanced over the door of the refrigerator to see her standing in the half dark, shapes in the dining area gleaming dully.
They passed each other wordlessly when he was done.
§§§
“Didn’t know you had a cat, Amana?”
“I don’t,” she said as the big white tom leapt up into her lap, sniffed at her still greasy hands then butted against Jackie’s arm. “I pet sit for a neighbor down the hall. She has Cofax here and Zippy, a corgi. They spent most of last month in my house and now think they own the joint. Hey…watch it, senor.” The cat had begun licking at the plate in her lap. “Zippy would be in here too, but he can’t do the balcony the way Cofax can.” She looked up from the cat’s green eyes. “No one here’s allergic, right? I can just send him back-”
“Oh no!” Jackie protested as she moved closer to stroke his white fur. “Don’t send him back. We’ve all had our shots.”
A gleam in his eye, Walter countered with a quick, “Speak for yourself. I’m sure there’s a few shots I’ve missed.”
Birkoff snorted. “Unlikely. Has he ever told you about the time in Panama…”
§§§
While the cat made himself comfortable across Jackie’s lap - letting her stroke his white fur, nipping at her fingers when she failed to scratch him in a way that befitted a guest in his home - Michael stood and began collecting empty glasses and bottles, plates and utensils, piling them up on one of the trays. When Amana half-rose from the daybed-turned-sofa to help him, he waved her away with his still free hand.
A moment later a burst of raucous laughter sent the white cat leaping from Jackie’s lap to twine around Michael’s ankles. He shifted his hips to keep from tripping as the cat managed to wind around his legs despite his forward motion. It gave up, however, to dart for the kitchen. He followed. The sound of Walter’s and Birkoff’s competitive storytelling rising and falling like an incoming tide lapping at his back.
The cat was sitting very determinedly in front of a central cupboard by the floor. Michael ignored it, noting the odd way sound from the living room was muted in the kitchen despite their proximity, setting the dirty dishes into the sink instead. Only then did he bend down to satisfy the cat. Who promptly darted into the dim dining area, glowing like a fuzzy beacon as he hunched in the dark.
Following, Michael was reminded that Simone had wanted a cat but worried about what would happen to it if one of them died, and that Elena also wanted a cat, but was allergic. They were considering getting a dog for Adam when he was old enough…
He paused in pouring the dry pet food. The cat, Cofax, butted against his hand.
He resumed pouring.
Next Part