MILES: Chapter Three, part 7

Instead of catching the next bus home, she walked out onto the avenue, down past the frozen trees of the park, and down the hill into the heart of the city. It was dark, and cold, and she tugged her long coat tighter. She needed a change in atmosphere. She crossed a glass sky-bridge, colored lights twinkling in the frozen air, and the open sky made her feel a little better.

Mark wanted something, but she had no idea what. Even when they were together, he had been enigmatic at best, and often deliberately misleading. And so, like a seed caught between her back teeth that she couldn’t dislodge, a feeling of dread rooted itself into the back of her mind and slowly began to spread.

Now Melody needed something to eat, and a chance to relax. Downtown was surprisingly busy for the season. She was rounding a corner when she noticed she was being followed, but not by anything dangerous. She stopped, and peered down an empty alley. Amidst the garbage and discarded furniture, several sets of yellow eyes peered up at her. She grinned.

“Hey, babies,” she called into the alley, and three alley cats appeared from the shadows. “I wish I had some food for you.” The cats mewed their agreement with that sentiment. Two of them – an orange tabby and a fat Siamese – approached Melody fearlessly, butting up against her. They had only been abandoned recently, she knew, and still hung onto their domestic nature. The third was a wild-eyed tom, thin and feral, and took his time trusting her. He stared her down, perched atop a stack of broken wooden pallets.

“I’m sorry, sweethearts,” she said, and the orange cat at her feet mewed sadly, nearly breaking Melody’s heart. “I’m going inside for a while, where it’s warm. No, you can’t come with me. I have to get some people food first, but if you find me later, I’ll get you something to eat.”

The orange cat turned her head to one side, licked her lips and with a leap and a scuffle, vanished into the shadows. The Siamese wasn’t so graceful, but wandered off as well, leaving the tom still perched, roughly the height of Melody’s head, glaring at her.

“You too, you big meanie,” she said, and stuck out her tongue. “But you have to be nice to Francis. He’s not good with strangers.”

The black cat yawned wide, his pink tongue flicked out, and he leapt down from the pallets into the darkness.

Down the street, she passed Frond’s – the dance club that throbbed uncomfortably and radiated much more sexual energy than Melody was entirely comfortable with – and the Watchtower Pub. Something trickled through her as she passed the Watchtower; someone inside made her curious. She peeked through a window, and caught a glimpse of a handsome man in a starched white dress shirt sitting by himself at the bar. She stared another moment, trying to glean what was so interesting about him, but scurried away quickly when he turned to look outside.

In a nearby Greek restaurant she ordered a falafel and a coffee and sat alone, just inside the window. An untended fire slowly burned away in a fireplace across the room, providing little heat. With no other customers, the proprietor wandered into the back where Melody presumed his wife was cooking, as snippets of an argument trickled back to her. She didn’t understand the language, but the anger that filled the air needed little translation. Melody began to feel a little uncomfortable. The argument quickly escalated; the man and woman began shouting and stomping about, oblivious to the business they may have been scaring off. Grateful that she’d paid her bill when she ordered, Melody wrapped up her pita and trudged outside to a covered bus stop, soaking in the bitter cold. A few minutes later, a curious meow and a bundle of orange fur joined her on the bench.

“Where are your friends?” she asked. “Not as brave as you?” Melody offered some falafel but after a sniff the cat turned away and sneezed in disgust. “I guess you’re not a vegetarian.”

She finished her dinner in silence, and sipped her coffee while the cat made herself comfortable in Melody’s lap, quickly falling asleep. Her turtleneck was warm enough, she thought, and the night was beautiful, if cold. She amused herself by watching her breath waft away in the frozen air.

And, though she rarely indulged herself, she decided what she really wanted was a cigarette.

MILES: Chapter Three, part 4

Erik felt a little drunk. The tips of his fingers tingled, and he found himself staring at them, as if there was something touching them that he yet couldn’t identify. When he and Sharon were together, they often drank wine with dinner, but he was never a social drinker; he didn’t like the feeling of losing control. But the other patrons in the bar seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely; perhaps there was a secret to drinking that he was unaware of. He began to feel unbalanced again, alone and unarmed. Perhaps this excursion was a mistake.

He paid the bill, left a fair tip, pulled his pea coat tightly around him, and stepped out into the cold air.

“Excuse me?” The woman’s voice behind him startled him. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” he said, almost apologetically, and turned to face the source of the question.

The woman was young, maybe mid-twenties, with bright brown eyes and bright red hair, which was propped up on the top of her head by a pair of oversized sunglasses and billowed across the shoulders of her turtleneck sweater. She wore a short black coat, which stopped at her waist and accented plaid pants, snug against her long legs. She exhaled sharply, her breath condensing into an almost pure white cloud, and she rubbed her hands together briskly in an attempt to warm them.

“S’alright. It’s a filthy habit anyway. Francis gives me grief about it all the time.”

“Sorry, who?” he asked.

The woman looked momentarily embarrassed, and then quickly smiled. “Oh, no one. I was just being silly.”

Erik began to wonder if the girl was flirting or just making fun of him, like perhaps there was some inside joke that he was blissfully unaware of, and if he tried chatting up this girl she would only laugh and point out his folly.

“It’s a bit cold, isn’t it?” he said, pointing out the painfully obvious. He felt foolish the moment he said the words. She smiled wide nonetheless, a warm and forgiving smile, and he felt suddenly at ease. He felt like he should say something else, like he should introduce himself or comment on something, anything other than the weather. Instead he stood there, uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, blowing warm breath into the cold air.

“You have a good way about you,” she said. “You take care, alright?”

She turned and walked down the sidewalk, her long red hair bouncing and rippling with each footstep. He stood for an unusually long time, watching her walk. Yes, she was undoubtedly attractive – strikingly beautiful, even – but that wasn’t why Erik stared. There were beautiful women everywhere, several in his office in fact, but Erik was a man of tact, not one for outright gawking. Erik stared because he seemed to have no choice; there was something unusually alluring, something so unexpectedly inviting and compassionate about the woman, that he could not break his gaze.

But there was something odd and almost unnerving about the woman as well, something mysterious and inhuman – no, perhaps more than human was more appropriate. Her hips twisted and curved with such raw sexuality, almost animal in its intensity, but she moved with a certain feline grace.

He realized a moment later what was also so strange about her: as she walked down the alley, she was being followed by a surprising number of feral cats. It seemed as though all the stray cats of the neighborhood were drawn to her like moths to a light; they stalked her, silent and agile. They stuck mostly to the shadows, flitting in and out of dark pockets like shadows themselves. She seemed not to notice, and by the time she crossed the street, the cats were nowhere to be seen.

Cats, he thought. How funny. Cats.

Perhaps if not for the distraction of the red-haired woman, perhaps if not for the several gin martinis, Erik would have noticed the large black sedan with tinted windows slowly following him down the street. Perhaps he would have noticed the driver’s side window roll down halfway as a man in sunglasses and a dark suit took several snapshots with a small digital camera. But Erik kept walking, stumbling slightly as the last of the alcohol settled in, and he pulled himself clumsily up the stairs to his apartment.

Cats.