The Third Cat Story Megapack. Damien Broderick

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      Splat!

      Flat

      Rat.

      Fat

      Cat.

      ALEX, by Mary A. Turzillo

      When the time comes round again, She leaves her throne, walks down from heaven, and hearkens to mortal longings.

      * * * *

      Cara paced in the patch of sunshine on her linoleum floor, cell phone mashed to her ear.

      “Tell me you didn’t,” her friend Judith shrilled on the other end. “You met this guy at an Italian-American club dance, and you invite him over. This is smart? This is safe? Cara, do you watch the news?”

      “This is not a blind date,” said Cara. “He comes to the dances at least once a month and I’ve seen him at Vitello’s Deli. Name’s Alex Cacciato. He wrote his telephone number on a napkin—”

      “Which you mysteriously can’t find.”

      “It’s in my car. I thought I put it in my bag, but it must be in my car.” Actually, Cara had ransacked her VW Rabbit, even under the floor mats and in the seat cracks. But the guy had to be okay. Lived in the neighborhood, Mayfield and Murray Hill, Little Italy. Her territory. A local, or maybe one of the artist types who were moving in, seeking low-rent studios.

      “Cara, don’t let him in. Say you’re sick and don’t let him in.”

      Cara took the phone away from her ear and took three calming breaths. Then she returned it to her mouth. “Judith, I’m thirty-three. The ol’ Timex battery is running down. If I’m going to—you know—”

      “Get married. Say it.”

      “—to have a lover, or even any fun, I need to risk. This morning I found a spider vein on the back of my leg. Listen, he has this sexy mustache. Green eyes. Buns to die for. He’s so cute—”

      “So was Ted Bundy.”

      Cara rubbed her finger around the edge of the phone, torn. Judith had been her friend throughout library school, but Judith lacked Cara’s earthy touch. The minute Judith had landed a job, she had moved into a singles complex on Lake Erie. Cara had kept her old-fashioned apartment in Little Italy. Sure, Cara could afford a new place, but she liked the patch of sun on the kitchen linoleum, the claw-foot tub in the bathroom, the jungle of spider-plants she raised on the porch, the landlord’s indifference to her ginger tomcat.

      Should she let Judith talk her out of the date? Alex was due—oh, God, now!

      Judith said, “Don’t let him in. If he’s legit, he’ll call again—”

      “What if he doesn’t? I can’t let this one slip away! After Gene—”

      “Gene tried to run over your cat.”

      “An accident. Also, cats aggravated his Borna-Tupaia syndrome.”

      “Gene was a rat. Dumped you because he found a cat-hair in his carrot juice.”

      Cara’s felt glum. “The guy probably won’t turn up, anyway.”

      “He might. Creeps flock to you like rats to garbage. No, that’s mean. I meant flies to honey.”

      Cara felt even worse. She looked at her nails, painted two different colors because Claws von Pumpkin had batted the Porcelain Pinkie off the dresser, forcing her to finish with Iceberry Slink. “Gotta be some nice guys out there.”

      “But you keep ending up with vermin. You’re a masochist, girl.”

      Judith was right. Of course, Judith didn’t date, but she read many books about relationships, such as How to Find an Almost Nice Guy and Men Who Make Fun of Woman and How to Embarrass Them.

      “Judith, I gotta do it. There were sparks. Chemistry.”

      Judith paused, and Cara figured she was lighting a cigarette. “Yeah, chemistry. As in chemical warfare.”

      The phone felt hot, slippery as a vibrator that had been running too long.

      The doorbell rang.

      Without saying goodbye, Cara hung up.

      Morituri te salutamus.

      * * * *

      He was just as hot as she had remembered. Copper-colored chest hair peeked out above the buttons of his denim shirt. “Alex! I hope you’re not allergic,” said Cara, opening the door wide. “I’m sorry my apartment is so—”

      “Just like my place.” Alex squeezed past her into the kitchen.

      Shit. Had she left that burned pan in the sink? Had Claws von Pumpkin left a giant turd in the litter-box? Not really sure Alex would keep the date, she had tidied up only halfheartedly.

      Thank God Claws von P. was outdoors. He always got friendly with visitors who were violently allergic.

      Cara scurried after Alex. Oh, shit! Slimy chicken skin in the sink drainer! Smelly tuna in the cat dish! And Alex was peeking into the refrigerator.

      “It’s not, um, quite ready.”

      “That’s okay. Just wondered what we were having.”

      Oh no! With her luck, he was a vegetarian! He was sort of on the thin side. Wiry, really.

      Nice build.

      Now, Cara, she scolded, going to bed with this strange man right away would be dangerous.

      But lots of fun.

      “You’re a vegetarian?” she asked.

      He shuddered. “Only if force-fed.” He moved bottles around in the refrigerator. Made himself right at home. Still—so cute. Thick auburn hair, green eyes. His jeans hugged his butt so nicely, and the blue shirt stretched over his shoulder-blades.

      “Nice shirt,” she said.

      “Thank you. I borrowed it, and guess what? There was a twenty in the pocket.” He leaned toward her and inhaled. “Mm, smells good.”

      Had she turned the oven too high? “Chicken.”

      He yawned. “Not me. I’m pretty bold. How about you?”

      He brushed his cheek against her hair. She caught a woodsy scent, clean, but not out of a bottle.

      He leaned over and tickled her neck with his mustache. Immediately, she felt her panties get wet.

      Judith, she thought, see what a slut I am?

      In a tiny voice, she said, “You’re going too fast.”

      Alex stepped back and, looking confused, smoothed his mustache.

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