I’ve had time to get ahead on my admin stuff, make tons of social media content, and, apparently, time to have sex with a woman almost seventeen years younger than me. I have one week of forty-six left, and I’m going out with a bang, it seems.
Speaking of making changes, Cat curls up against me, kneading my hip with his little paws, purring away.
“So,” I begin, scratching his chin, “I think we need to talk.”
“Meow.”
It’s something.
“Do you want to live here? Like for real.”
“Meow.”
“And do you want me to be your mom?”
His answering “meow” is more of a yawn, but I’ll take it.
“Okay, well, I’ll go to the pet store this weekend and get you more stuff, and I’ll make an appointment for the V-E-T to get you checked over.” I spell it out, on the off chance he knows the word, and with the understanding that I’m having a seemingly two-way conversation with a cat, and I’m probably losing my mind.
“I should probably give you a real name, huh?”
I look him over. He’s mostly black, with little tufts of chocolate brown peppered throughout his smooth coat, and a single white patch on one paw. He’s purring contentedly, curled up like a burned croissant…
“Croissant,” I say, and he cracks one orange eye, meowing in agreement. “Alright. Croissant it is—but the proper pronunciation. You tell me if anyone pronounces it like ‘crah-sawnt,’ okay?”
He doesn’t reply. Because he’s a cat, and I, once again, am losing my mind.
I really have to get out more.
My morning passes in bowl after bowl of batter, frosting, and ganache, as I work in the basement kitchen.
Thinking about Noelle.
Wondering what Noelle is doing.
Assuming Noelle regrets everything.
Wondering what to expect from Noelle.
Hearing Noelle call me sweetheart.
Remembering how Noelle tastes.
Remembering how Noelle sounds when she comes.
It can all be summed up as spiraling about Noelle. And it doesn’t make the day pass any faster. She turns up a couple of hours after lunch, and I do a wonderful job of pretending like I haven’t been on edge all day.
And by that, I mean I spot her and immediately knock an entire bowl of lemon curd over with my elbow. I’m not proud of the curse that slips out of my mouth.
Noelle stops in her tracks, staring wide-eyed as the ocean of sticky yellow curd floods over the island and spills onto the floor beyond.
“Well, then.” She moves slowly across the kitchen, dodging the curd as she comes closer. “You know, most people are a little less frazzled the day after multiple orgasms.” She stops at the edge of the island and swipes her finger through the lemon puddle, bringing it to her lips and groaning. “Fuck, that’s good.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if I passed out at this point. I’m almost forty-seven years old. What business do I have getting this flustered over someone?
I cover my face with my hands and sigh; they smell like lemon. “I’m sorry for the mess. I’ll clean it?—”
“Shay.” Soft fingers close around my wrists, and Noelle tugs my hands away. She eyes me with concern. “It’s not a big deal. Breathe for a second. I’ll clean it up.”
