Journals of Lord Malinov

the poetry of madness

used

"let's get ready to go out," I said as the evening began to wane.

"where we going?"

"let's get a drink or dessert or something."

I drove to the Pit and stepped up to the bar.  Steven asked me for an order.

"I don't know." I replied.  "I don't know why I'm here."

"you do too know." 

Cats knows my patterns.  My interest in Elisa had not been masked, but I had no real reason to think she would be working.  She wasn't. 

"there's a kitten on the patio," I soon observed.  Cats stepped outside.

We have a new tiny cat, as yet unnamed.  I like "Mechanacore, Kitten of Doom," but am determined to find the perfect name.

Once upon a time, I had a cat named Sugar.  She was a wayward teenage cat who slipped out of the house just as her first heat hit and came home three days later, reeking of alchohol and preggers.  She soon delivered five kittens.  They are so much fun.

The Universe tipped to put a new kitten in my hands.  The girls at the restaurant were worried about the kitten, especially as Dallas has been pushing one ten and more this last week.  He's about two months old, but there don't seem to be any other cats around.

We sat in the parking lot for about an hour, using the Kratt brothers technique for befriending animals.  I realized that this is exactly the same strategy I have begun using on people.  Let them get used to you and then gently tempt them toward you.  Once in Cats hands, the kitten began a purr-fest that hasn't stopped.  Greg has been playing with him for the last hour, since he got here.  He's pushing for blackjack, a pretty good name, I must say. 

Cats and I went out with the Pit crew for a birthday party.  The birthday boy was lured into extreme drunkeness, which made me feel bad for him, as there are so many better things to do than puke.  We socialized like old pros.  Who would have believed that we could eradicate decades of social anxiety?

As the party came to an end, as the bar closed, I sat near Elisa.  I had been watching her all night, fascinated by the expressions she made.  She is pretty but not in a fabulous way, with simple symmetries.  She is excitably nervous, eager and active.  For all that, there is something in her eyes, in her voice, in her manner, in her style and attitude.  Not a mirror, for she is quite unlike me in many ways.  Intelligent, soulful, passion.  Sparks or a real fire?  I cannot help but wonder.

We spoke for a few minutes, politely pausing as some guy neither of us knew provided a delightfully irrelevant tale.  She exuded fascination and fear - more nervous than I was in a manner that I would have perceived as distaste, but now see as quite the opposite.  I didn't offer any plans.  Patience, Iago.

M

posted by: Malinov at 09:54 | link | comments |
petting the cat

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