ampoule
12-17-2007, 06:06 PM
This was my entry in the October elimination.
The Cat
“What is that infernal noise?” Peering through the age-thinned curtain, yellow dust tickling his nose, straining to see beyond the dim porch light, he saw them there, two cats. A female, he surmised, crouching low, with a large tom caught in her stare. He rapped his knuckle against the window pane and the tom looked toward the noise. She, however, remained frozen, unblinking, her tail barely twitching.
Flicking off the light, he shuffled back to the rickety green chair. Picking up his old book of poems, something fell from the musty pages and he immediately recognized it. One of hers. One of her poems. He watched it come to rest by his scuffed shoe. He ached from within and without as he reached to pick it up. Placing it back in the book, he closed it and stared at his empty wine glass and the smudges of his grimy fingerprints.
“Blast it!” This time, trying to scare them away, he slammed open the door and saw the tom’s tail dart through the faded pink peonies. But where was she? Gone. Gone as if never there. He stood looking into the dreary night. No stars, no moon, a hanging smell so heavy he could not breathe it. But he could weep and weep he did, tasting his tears, trickling salty into the corner of his mouth. And tasting with his tongue how thirsty, how thirsty he was, and then he stood sobbing her poem, those words, those words.
Taking off his glasses, he dried his eyes on his wrinkled sleeve dreading his unmade bed. He had not slept in it for days knowing he would crumble at the scent of her. He pictured himself, there on the floor, kneeling against the bed, praying like some small boy. “Dear God, please bless mommy and daddy.” But then he saw his true and present form begging, “Please...bless...me. Take it away, please, take it away.”
“What the….!” Stepping around the corner he was angered at the overhead light with one bulb burnt and the other one not far behind, for playing tricks on his wet eyes. But it wasn’t a trick. He was not alone. She was there, sitting quietly in the middle of his kitchen floor.
He didn’t much care for cats and certainly not strays. He wanted to yell, “GET OUT”, but he was instead, suddenly calmed. She was so, so something, and his throat tightened, remembering. She had been something too. But what and why had she touched him so?
Wearily he leaned against the door jamb, rubbing his forehead, like a headache without the pain. He opened his eyes and saw that it was he who was caught in her stare. There was no screeching or warning noise, only a sweet and simple, meow. And he thought how that tiny voice was the only other one heard in his home in a very long time. And when he looked at her, she blinked.
“You must be hungry.” Her eyes followed him as he quickly stepped to the refrigerator, wondering what in the world he was doing. He had heard all the warnings, that if you feed them they will never go away. Once again, he was almost overcome as he remembered feeding her his stories. But her appetite was insatiable and he had no more to give her, his embarrassment pushing her away.
Finding yesterday’s leftover chicken thigh, he pulled the meat off the bone and placed it on the floor. She looked up at him, waiting for his invitation. Watching her eat so daintily he almost reached for her but instead took a clean glass down from the cupboard and poured himself a half glass of merlot. Twirling the dark juice, smelling the rich aroma, he lifted the glass to his lips and as he drank he saw her watching.
“And thirsty! Where are my manners?” Kneeling on supple knees that surprised him, he dipped his fingers into the glass and offered them to her. Closing her eyes, she licked them, the roughness of her tongue sending chills running through him. Carefully, he put his hand on her head and she raised her body to meet his touch. He followed the uphill curve of her back, the electricity of her response causing him to repeat the move over and over again. Stopping abruptly, she almost fell over and he smiled to himself as she brushed around and around his ankles, then followed him closely as he walked into the front parlor.
Pausing near a small round table, he felt for the small black switch and pushed it, lighting the lamp. He picked up a book, the one from Christmas, the one from his old friend at the university, the one he had never bothered to open. Looking it over and smelling the newness of it, he settled into his favorite chair.
“May I read to you?” Sitting on the oriental carpet, her colors blending, she watched as he read aloud. "By God, I think she’s listening", he said to himself, peering over his glasses into her eyes. Walking to him, she once again rubbed against his ankles. Closing the book, he patted his knee and she placed her paws upon it and he petted her. He then patted his chest and she jumped up, kneading him, purring, and once again he began to weep. Quickly she jumped down and returned to her place on the carpet.
They sat looking at each other for a long time when suddenly a waft of lilacs left by the housekeeper drifted past his nose. The clock he hadn’t heard in days began to chime. He tasted the wine on his lips. Leaning forward, he saw his hand reach out, and touching her behind the ear he asked, “Would you like to stay the night?”
The Cat
“What is that infernal noise?” Peering through the age-thinned curtain, yellow dust tickling his nose, straining to see beyond the dim porch light, he saw them there, two cats. A female, he surmised, crouching low, with a large tom caught in her stare. He rapped his knuckle against the window pane and the tom looked toward the noise. She, however, remained frozen, unblinking, her tail barely twitching.
Flicking off the light, he shuffled back to the rickety green chair. Picking up his old book of poems, something fell from the musty pages and he immediately recognized it. One of hers. One of her poems. He watched it come to rest by his scuffed shoe. He ached from within and without as he reached to pick it up. Placing it back in the book, he closed it and stared at his empty wine glass and the smudges of his grimy fingerprints.
“Blast it!” This time, trying to scare them away, he slammed open the door and saw the tom’s tail dart through the faded pink peonies. But where was she? Gone. Gone as if never there. He stood looking into the dreary night. No stars, no moon, a hanging smell so heavy he could not breathe it. But he could weep and weep he did, tasting his tears, trickling salty into the corner of his mouth. And tasting with his tongue how thirsty, how thirsty he was, and then he stood sobbing her poem, those words, those words.
Taking off his glasses, he dried his eyes on his wrinkled sleeve dreading his unmade bed. He had not slept in it for days knowing he would crumble at the scent of her. He pictured himself, there on the floor, kneeling against the bed, praying like some small boy. “Dear God, please bless mommy and daddy.” But then he saw his true and present form begging, “Please...bless...me. Take it away, please, take it away.”
“What the….!” Stepping around the corner he was angered at the overhead light with one bulb burnt and the other one not far behind, for playing tricks on his wet eyes. But it wasn’t a trick. He was not alone. She was there, sitting quietly in the middle of his kitchen floor.
He didn’t much care for cats and certainly not strays. He wanted to yell, “GET OUT”, but he was instead, suddenly calmed. She was so, so something, and his throat tightened, remembering. She had been something too. But what and why had she touched him so?
Wearily he leaned against the door jamb, rubbing his forehead, like a headache without the pain. He opened his eyes and saw that it was he who was caught in her stare. There was no screeching or warning noise, only a sweet and simple, meow. And he thought how that tiny voice was the only other one heard in his home in a very long time. And when he looked at her, she blinked.
“You must be hungry.” Her eyes followed him as he quickly stepped to the refrigerator, wondering what in the world he was doing. He had heard all the warnings, that if you feed them they will never go away. Once again, he was almost overcome as he remembered feeding her his stories. But her appetite was insatiable and he had no more to give her, his embarrassment pushing her away.
Finding yesterday’s leftover chicken thigh, he pulled the meat off the bone and placed it on the floor. She looked up at him, waiting for his invitation. Watching her eat so daintily he almost reached for her but instead took a clean glass down from the cupboard and poured himself a half glass of merlot. Twirling the dark juice, smelling the rich aroma, he lifted the glass to his lips and as he drank he saw her watching.
“And thirsty! Where are my manners?” Kneeling on supple knees that surprised him, he dipped his fingers into the glass and offered them to her. Closing her eyes, she licked them, the roughness of her tongue sending chills running through him. Carefully, he put his hand on her head and she raised her body to meet his touch. He followed the uphill curve of her back, the electricity of her response causing him to repeat the move over and over again. Stopping abruptly, she almost fell over and he smiled to himself as she brushed around and around his ankles, then followed him closely as he walked into the front parlor.
Pausing near a small round table, he felt for the small black switch and pushed it, lighting the lamp. He picked up a book, the one from Christmas, the one from his old friend at the university, the one he had never bothered to open. Looking it over and smelling the newness of it, he settled into his favorite chair.
“May I read to you?” Sitting on the oriental carpet, her colors blending, she watched as he read aloud. "By God, I think she’s listening", he said to himself, peering over his glasses into her eyes. Walking to him, she once again rubbed against his ankles. Closing the book, he patted his knee and she placed her paws upon it and he petted her. He then patted his chest and she jumped up, kneading him, purring, and once again he began to weep. Quickly she jumped down and returned to her place on the carpet.
They sat looking at each other for a long time when suddenly a waft of lilacs left by the housekeeper drifted past his nose. The clock he hadn’t heard in days began to chime. He tasted the wine on his lips. Leaning forward, he saw his hand reach out, and touching her behind the ear he asked, “Would you like to stay the night?”