Page 8 of Fruit
“Life is hard,” I mumble. The apartment stays quiet and still.
I blink my eyes open, thinking of Dumpster Kitten. I wonder how she’s doing. It’s only been a few days, but I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. Is she eating? Were the parasites worse than the vet thought? Would she remember me, if I went to see her?
I don’t want to be around anybody right now, and yet it feels lonely in the apartment. I don’t want to think about anything. About the job that’s sucking the life out of me or the hamster-wheel feel of my life. It’d be nice to have something to come home to.
The image of the kitten’s big, green eyes as it trembled underneath the dumpster haunts me.
I flop to my back. I’m short enough to fit semi-comfortably on the couch, my ample curves sinking into the cushions. My hair is caught in a messy bun, and it digs into my scalp as the top of my head presses against the side of the couch.
Maybe I’ll just go to the vet, see what it would really cost to keep the cat. It’d be worth it, I think.
We could take care of each other.
**********
There’s this feeling I get when I draw. It’s like I go somewhere else. Somewhere…not quiet, exactly, but so full I can’t think of anything else. It’s my body and my senses and that intangible thing inside me I don’t know how to name, reaching out into the world and just…creating. My wrist and my arm and the grip of my fingers move, and I am moved with them. My body will rearrange itself and be made whole for a little while. The process is almost painful, frustrating, anxiety-producing, but it’s as vital and natural as breathing.
I’ve been chasing that feeling all my life. That sense of—yes. Yes, this hurts. But, this is who I am.
**********
“That bastard stole my cat!”
Joaquin takes a reflexive step back from the doorway. I storm into the apartment he shares with Ezra, fuming.
“Huh?” he says.
“El mamón ese.He stole my cat.”
“You have a cat?” Joaquin asks, confused.
Joaquin and I have been friends for forever, both our parents from the same Puerto Rican community in our hometown. We’d attended Fox Lake University together, although I was a year younger than him. He’d stayed in the city after graduating, having landed a job in an architectural company when the internship he got into after college didn’t pan out.
“No, I don’t have a cat, because that bastard stole it,” I say, collapsing moodily onto the couch.
Ezra steps out of the kitchen, looking slightly adorable in an apron. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“Apparently, Iva’s cat has been stolen,” Joaquin says.
“You have a cat?” Ezra asks, turning to me. I groan in frustration.
“I found a cat last Saturday when I was walking home, remember? I took it to the vet, that guy gave me a lift, and I returned for the cat today ’cause I thought…I mean, I can take care of a cat. But the vet said the dude had already taken it home.”
“Wait, so the guy that drove you to the vet when you were soaking wet went back for the cat?” Joaquin asks.
“Yes!”
Ezra raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like a real piece of shit,” he deadpans. I glare at him.
“It wasmycat. I rescued it. I didn’t even need his help, that…bastard.”
Joaquin and Ezra share a look before Joaquin sits beside me on the couch.
“I didn’t know you wanted a cat. Maybe the shelter—”
“I don’t want a cat, I want—that’smycat. I…we…it needs me, okay? Not that pet-stealing asshole.” There’s a moment of silence.
“Okay. Do you know anything about this guy? Did the shelter get his details?” Joaquin asks.
