Page 12 of Just Say (Hell) No
“Not as good a contrast,” he told Nyree, “but more cooperative, eh.” He held the little thing close to his body, and before he quite realized what was happening, it threaded its delicate way carefully along his forearm, its claws digging into his jersey and his skin, until it got to the crook of his elbow, where it settled in.
“Well, bugger,” he said. “I think this one likes me.” He stroked its head, just because it was impossibly soft, sweetly curved, and so small.
Nyree didn’t answer. She was focused all the way in. His face wasn’t going to be in these. Instead, it would be a speck of a gray kitten against a dark blue jersey and some anonymous bicep. Worked for him.
“Did you have cats?” she asked, still shooting.
“No. I’m more of a dog person. As you saw.”
“Mm-hmm.” The kitten was exploring again, clinging to his jersey. Climbing his chest. “I don’t think she cares.”
“It’s a she?” The little claws were sharp. “Oi,” he said, picking her off his shirt and holding her a bit away from him. “Mind your manners.” A tiny vibration came through to his hand, and he realized she was purring. He put her back in the crook of his arm, because she liked it, and possibly to keep her claws out of him.
“She’s a bit of a special case,” Nyree said, still snapping away. “Brought in all alone a couple weeks ago, not even the size of my palm. She’s been bottle fed at the front desk ever since. That’s why I brought her out, because she’s a cuddly one. Confident, too. She was my backup plan.”
“So do you work here all the time?” he asked. “And what?” he added when she lowered the camera and looked at him. “That was smooth. Followed straight on from what came before.”
“No,” she said. “I volunteer every week or so to photograph the animals, that’s all. Call it my good deed. Nobody can take a proper photo, and the poor things end up looking like they were shot from Mars, or like they have an enormous head. Nobody’s going to adopt them like that.”
“In between your work as a photographer?”
“No.”
“Paratrooper?” he suggested. “Cage fighter? Heart surgeon?”
The hands on the camera stilled, and the curvy little body stopped moving. “I don’t have a worthwhile occupation? Why not?”
He sighed. “I’m asking myself, am I here because this is hard work? Or in spite of it?”
“You’re here,” she said sweetly, “because of the knitting bag. I know how New Zealand Rugby thinks.”
“Bugger,” he said. “You know about that.”
She was still snapping, because the kitten was climbing his chest again, making it all the way to his shoulder, forcing him to put up a hand to steady it just in case. Nyree said, “You could say it was a two-island sensation. Keep your hand there. Very nice bicep, and it makes the kitten look even smaller. How many centimeters is that thing? The hand, not the bicep. I know how big the bicep is. Freaking enormous.”
He said, “I’m oddly cheered that you noticed I have biceps. Not to mention big hands. Shallow of me, I’m sure.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “No correlation.”
He sighed. “Shot down again.”
He thought she might be smiling. “Actually, there is one. Just not the one you think. Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course I want to hear it.” The kitten was on the move again, prowling along the collar of his jersey and coming to rest on his other shoulder.
“Here you are, then. My gift to you for being such a cooperative subject. Ring finger.”
“Uh…” His right hand was occupied with corralling the kitten. He held out his left one. “I’ve got a ring finger, yeh. But no ring, if you notice, so if that’s what’s bothering you, you can stop being bothered. No wife, no fiancée, and no girlfriend. I pass.”
She sighed. “Was I asking? I was not. That it’s longer than your index finger. Considerably.”
He studied it. “So it is. Tell me that’s good.”
“Depends what you mean by ‘good.’ Your ring finger being longer is a marker for more testosterone. As compared to a man with a longer index finger. Something about the second trimester and testosterone levels in the womb. There’s a size correlation as well, but not the, uh, one you may be thinking.” She was blushing, he thought. “Never mind. They did a study, so there you are.”
He thought about asking exactly what the size correlation was. He didn’t. The idea was there in her mind. That was enough. He said, “There I am indeed. Cheering news. More testosterone’s a good thing, one hopes. Unless not.”
She shrugged, trying to pull off “unconcerned,” but her cheeks were still tinged with pink. Size, eh. She’d forgotten to take photos, too. “Correlated with athletic ability,” she said. “Plus sense of direction, physical aggression, and risk-taking.”
