I was drawn to his checkerboard hair: half-leopard/ half-Mohair. Surly, cheeky, sarcasm oozed from his lips. He’d call me Farrah to get a rise. I pretended I didn’t like it, but any attention was better than none.
When he called me a pussy, I punched him. So hard it hurt my hand.
How I ended up in his bed seemed an entire life in one smooshed week. His two cats, Rat Boy and Martha were clueless, too.
His skull was nearly perfect, like a newborn, the way his ears parenthesized his face perfectly. Utter dome-dom.
It all started when he bought my leopard nightie.
After he’d score the occasional night shift, I’d pace, roll across the rug, clawing air.
I’d spit at Rat Boy and Martha. They’d cower, growling under the sofa.
I’d lick my entire body, starting with my hands, then head to toe, following their lead.
Eventually I became one, slept all day, twitching by night. Between naps, I’d sit at the picture window, track flights of birds.
Lure them to our feeders. Fatten them up.