pop in. If you’re busy or won’t be home, I totally understand. But if you could spare one hot second to check on the cat…
Me: That cat gets more attention than I do.
Abbott: Whose fault is that? Are you one of those guys who doesn’t want a commitment but who also wants girls falling all over him?
Yes. One hundred percent.
Me: No.
But yeah. Totally.
I’ve always been that way, since the day I discovered girls have tits, plus vaginas—and when I slid my dick into a vagina, it felt like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Heaven.
Orgasmic.
The problem was: no woman has ever made my heart feel the way her vagina did—all warm and tingly and euphoric and hard. Therefore, I’ve never wanted to commit myself to one woman.
I came close with Kayla.
Abbott: So can you?
Me: Sure, why not? Just check the water, right?
Abbott: Yup, that should do it. Make sure Desi hasn’t gone crazy, ha ha. KIDDING. She’ll probably be sleeping in the window. If she doesn’t run and hide when you walk in…
Me: Great. The cat’s going to play hide-and-seek. As long as it isn’t planning a sneak attack, I think I can suffer through three seconds of checking on her bowl.
Abbott: If you’re tempted to play with her, I won’t be mad.
Me: THAT’S not happening. Dream on.
Abbott: I figured, but just had to say it. I keep forgetting you’re scared of a ten-pound cat.
Me: I’M NOT SCARED OF THE CAT!
Even though I am scared of the cat, just a little. I don’t trust the fucking thing. It looks like that damn cat from the movie where all the cats are evil and try to take over the world, whatever that stupid movie is called.
Abbott: Thanks, Brooks. I owe you one. Next time you need someone to grab your mail or whatever, I’m your girl.
If I ever went anywhere, yeah, that would be swell.
Me: Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the key and let myself in this afternoon.
Abbott: That’s perfect!!! Thanks!
I plunk the phone on my desk, upside down so there are no further distractions, and add Check on Desi the Terror Pussy to my ongoing list of shit to get done tonight.
Cat. Dinner. Laundry. Basketball game on TV.
Big night in, most likely with a set of blueprints and a bowl of popcorn.
No women.
No sex.
No distractions.
I stay productive most of the day and, at roughly three twenty-five, look at the clock then the side of my hand, which is covered in lead from sliding my fist over pencil markings. I push back my stool.
Stomach grumbling, I quietly put my things away, storing my expensive measuring devices and writing tools, and click off the light on my drafting table.
Grab my coat and give the room a once-over. Nothing amiss or out of place, I flip the overhead light off and call it an early day; I have a cat to check on.
Cutting out early isn’t the norm for me, and a bit of guilt churns in my gut as I pass Taylor’s desk.
“Oooh, going somewhere? A hot date you have to shave for?”
God this dude is so random.
“It’s just been one of those days, so I’m checking out. I’ll finish this up at home.” I give the rolled paper, stored inside a hard tube and tucked under my arm, a solid pat. “Game is on tonight and I have some errands to run first.”
“What kind of errands?”
My brows go up. What kind of errands does he think I’m doing? “The normal kind?”
“Like grocery shopping?”
“No.”
Taylor narrows his eyes. “So like, the post office?”
Huh? “No.”
“Grabbing your dry cleaning?”
“No.” I sigh, setting down the plastic storage tube. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just curious.”
That’s caring. “If you really must know, I have to check in on my neighbor’s cat.”
He sits back in his rolling desk chair and crosses his arms. “You’re running home two hours earlier than usual to check on a cat?” Now he’s looking at his fingernails. “Don’t cats usually fend for themselves or whatever?”
I thought so, too, but if Abbott wants me to check on McTerrorPussy and it only takes a few seconds, what’s the harm in helping her out?
“It’s not your average cat.”
Taylor considers this information. Then, “Wait—is this your neighbor neighbor, or just a neighbor?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? “It’s a neighbor.”
“Is this neighbor a man?”
Jesus, the way he says man makes me shake my head. “No.”
“Is this neighbor a hot little brunette?”
Sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Doesn’t she have, like, thirty servants to babysit the cat?”