Page 7 of The Bright Side of Brooding
He’d warmed up to me so quickly. From what I’d read, cats often took longer, especially if you didn’t get them as kittens. Butter was small, and he was fully grown when Rob dropped him at my house weeks ago. He’d been a shelter kitty, though one severely lonely hour spent searching cat breeds online made me think he was mostly, if not all, Ragdoll.
A distantthunktold me he’d jumped down from one of his many perches and would be expecting food and affection, in that order, immediately.
We went through these familiar motions, a welcomed distraction from the waves of cresting emotion that so often crept up on me and threatened to pull me under after days like this. Full, good days. And then something would trip the wire, and I’d be consumed with repeating thoughts about Gran.
Loss.
The knowledge that I had no one left, not a single person who knew me or cared. Not in anything beyond the superficial. Not for years, in truth, but now…
Death was so final. I’d ruminated on that for no small amount of time, obvious as it was.
I gave Butter a small pat on his back, which earned me a flick of his tail I’d learned meant to back off. I chuckled to myself, surprised to find that lightness in me so soon after thoughts of Gran and all that came with them.
On the counter, my eye caught on the baggy of remaining oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from Summer.
Summer Applegate.
The woman just wouldn’t quit. She’d delivered meals to many, but she didn’t need to feed me. I had few expenses beyond food and Danielle, the pet sitter, and I had no one else to worry about. I could feed myself.
The look on her face when she came to the door had been less attracted and more stunned. She definitely didn’t eye me in that way that made me feel bad, so points there. And again, not that I was some irresistible paragon or something, but it got old being looked at like a tool and not a person.
She clearly hadn’t expected me to answer the door so quickly. Probably planned to drop the food and sneak off. I never would’ve answered the door without a shirt, especially if I’d known it was her, but Butter had curled up in the crook of my arm, and I couldn’t convince myself anything was worth disturbing him or the low hum of comfort he gave me.
Irritation and a little… something else, not sure what, ticked away in the back of my mind. I’d very politely written to thank her and tell her I appreciated the food but that I didn’t need more. She’d ignored me, showed up with a meal that was, without a doubt, one of the finest I’d ever eaten. And I’d eaten every bite, almost to the point of being overfull.
Then I’d written another letter. She couldn’t mistake my meaning in this one, for sure. That should take care of it, and I’d be relieved when the next week passed without another meal.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
I snickered and moved through putting together a snack before an evening training session with one of my strongest clients, Art. I didn’t like her stubborn ignoring of mythanks but no thanksletter, but this time, she’d get it. She had to. And if I regretted that I wouldn’t eat her food again? I wouldn’t think about that either. Even if it had been practically the only flavors I’d managed to taste since before Christmas.
She’d go her way, finally, and I’d go mine. That sounded just right.
