I strolled away from his door, leaving him looking bewildered and irritated. Yay, me. Let him wonder exactly what had been said between Miguel and me. It was a small victory but it was mine. I continued on to my office, remembering exactly why office work hadn’t suited me. I would have quit right then and there, but Carson had made the mistake of making it personal. I wasn’t going to leave my friend in the lurch, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him drive me out.
Unfortunately, the meeting with Miguel set the tone for the day. There was a typo found in an ad that had already been sent to the printer. It took all my powers of persuasion to get it reprinted for free. Basically, the owner of the print company managed to get me to agree to some pro bono design work by me for his company. Whatever. So long as the final product didn’t reflect poorly on my team or blow our budget.
Another client was unhappy with the color scheme they had chosen and we had to do a mad scramble to come up with new colors and get them approved so that we could stay on schedule. This took six phone calls, several spins of the Pantone color wheel, and one thump of my forehead on my desk before it was resolved.
None of this was very different from the same sort of stuff I dealt with when I had worked for myself, but here there was a heightened sense of urgency. There were more careers at stake, more money on the line, and the reputation not just of me as a designer but of the company as well.
By quitting time, I could not wait to get out of there. I didn’t see Soph all day, and when I did, she seemed distracted. I wanted to talk to her about my conversation with Miguel, but I hesitated because I didn’t want to behave like Carson had, tattling to the boss about a coworker’s behavior. I decided to wait until tomorrow. I was just not in the mood at the end of a long Monday.
When I arrived home, I was immediately comforted by my little house with its newly acquired red accents. The pops of color eradicated the monotonous shades of black, blue-gray, and white, and gave the place a homey feel.
I opened one of the French doors that led to the backyard to let in the evening breeze and alleviate the stuffiness. I set to work making myself a tuna salad sandwich, and switched the radio on to the local evening jazz station and tried to shake off my aggravation with the work situation. Carson West was not going to get the better of me.
I poured myself a glass of wine and took a sip before plating my sandwich. A plaintive cry sounded from the door, and I glanced over to see a little gentleman in a tuxedo peeking around the door at me. Okay, so it was actually a kitten with black-and-white fur, but his chest and chin were white and his paws were white so in my defense, he looked like a little dude in a tux. Needless to say, my heart went smoosh.
“Hello, little fella,” I said. I kept my voice soft and low at a very nonthreatening decibel.
I didn’t want to scare him away, so I stood still, waiting to see what he would do. He took a tentative step inside. He sniffed the air, the floor, the open door, and then glanced at me. Could the half-full can of tuna on the counter have lured him in?
I checked the edges of the can; they were smooth. I picked it up and very slowly moved it to the ground. The little guy’s nose twitched. He was clearly conflicted. Should he come closer and enjoy a delicious repast of tuna, or was it a trap? I understood his dilemma.
“I completely understand your hesitation,” I said. Coltrane was playing his saxophone in the background, and I wondered if my furry dinner guest was a jazz fan.
He took a few steps inside. He paused beside the couch. Sniffed it and then very nonchalantly approached the can on the floor. His tail swished, and he gave me an assessing glance before hunkering down and devouring what was left in the can. I’m no cat expert, but he looked on the skinny side. Life on the streets could be tough.
I had planned to eat at the table by the window but I didn’t want to spook him, so I ate standing up, having a one-sided conversation with the little dude. With a few licks of his chops, he commiserated with me about office life and unscrupulous coworkers, which I appreciated.
Surprisingly, when he was finished, he didn’t head out the door. Instead, he strolled into the living room and stretched, looking like a yogi assuming an asana. Then he hopped up onto the couch and began to knead my brand-new red chenille throw. Huh.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
Judging by his purr, which sounded like a V8 engine, I assumed he accepted the invitation. There were a few problems with this scenario. First, I did not own a litter box so my dude was not going to be able to stay indefinitely. Second, I was quite positive that “no pets” had most definitely been listed in “the rules.”
I finished my sandwich, picked up my wine, and joined him in the living room, taking the armchair adjacent to the couch so that I didn’t scare him.
“You are aware that you’re going to get me in trouble,” I said.
He paused his kneading to blink at me.
“Yes, I know it’s a very arbitrary rule,” I said. “You are by no means a ‘pet.’ You’re more like a visiting cousin or friend.”
He went back to kneading. I took this as agreement.
“Is that the argument we will present for our defense?” I asked. “Because you know, and I know, that when I leave this house tomorrow morning, there is going to be a note. There’s always a note.”
He yawned. He hunkered deeper into his blanket and closed his eyes. A belly full of tuna will do that to you. I yawned as well. There was something very comforting about having another living being, aside from the plants, in the house.
I picked up the romantic comedy I’d been working my way through and settled in to read. I laughed a few times, cried once, and then my head began to bob and I found myself dream reading. You know, when you’re still reading but also dreaming. I had to go back and read the same paragraph three times before I realized I was actually asleep and nothing made sense. I put the book aside.
My new buddy was still snoozing. I didn’t have the heart to give him the boot. Instead, I shut off all the lights and left the French door open just a crack so he could leave when he wanted and not pee on my new red area rug. Then I went to bed.
Halfway through the night, I felt the bed dip by my feet and the little guy made a soft mewling sound before he curled up into the backs of my knees. Again, I didn’t have the heart to oust him. It was cold at night, dropping into the forties, and it would just be cruel to make him leave. I fell back asleep.
When I awoke in the morning, he was gone. I tried not to feel used but, honestly, no good morning nuzzle? No purr? Nothing? So rude.
* * *
Much to my surprise, when I left the house for work, there was no note attached to my door. I felt a strange pang of disappointment. There was something about those finger-wagging notes that made me feel as if I hadn’t completely lost my artistic edge—my rebellious streak, if you will—as I donned work clothes and headed out to my new corporate life.