Page 2 of Ruthless Creatures
He’s wrong about me not having feelings. I have all kinds of feelings. Anxiety. Fatigue. Low-level depression. An unshakable melancholy paired with gentle despair.
See? I’m not the emotional iceberg I get accused of being.
I hang the receiver back onto the cradle on the wall. It instantly rings again.
I hesitate, unsure if I want to answer or start binge drinking like I do every year on this day at this time, but decide I’ve got another ten minutes or so to kill before I start the annual ritual.
“Hello?”
“Did you know that cases of schizophrenia rose sharply around the turn of the twentieth century, when domestic cat ownership became common?”
It’s my best friend, Sloane. She has no interest in starting a conversation in a normal way, which is one of the many reasons I love her.
“What’s your beef with cats, anyway? It’s pathological.”
“They’re furry little serial killers who can give you brain-eating amoebas from their poo, but that’s not my point.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’m thinking of getting a dog.”
Trying to picture fiercely independent Sloane with a dog, I glance over at Mojo, snoozing in a slice of sunlight on the floor in the living room. He’s a black-and-tan shepherd mix, a hundred pounds of love in a shaggy coat, with a tail like a plume that’s constantly wagging.
David and I rescued him when he was only a few months old. He’s seven now, but acts like he’s seventy. I’ve never seen a dog sleep so much. I think he’s part sloth.
“You know you have to pick up their poop every day, right? And walk them? And give them baths? It’s like having a child.”
“Exactly. It’ll be good practice for when I have kids.”
“Since when are you thinking of having kids? You can’t even keep a plant alive.”
“Since I saw this burning hunk of man at Sprouts this morning. My biological clock started gonging like Big Ben. Tall, dark, handsome… and you know how I’m a sucker for scruff.” She sighs. “His was epic.”
I smile at the mental image of her ogling a guy at the grocery store. That situation is usually the other way around. The yoga classes she teaches are always filled with hopeful single men.
“Epic scruff. I’d like to see that.”
“It’s like five-o’clock shadow on steroids. He had this kind of piratey air. Is that a word? Anyway, he had that dangerous outlaw vibe going on. Total hottie. Rawr.”
“Hottie, huh? Doesn’t sound like anyone local. Must be a tourist.”
Sloane groans. “I should’ve asked him if he needed someone to show him the sights!”
I laugh. “The sights? Is that what you’re calling your boobs now?”
“Don’t hate. There’s a reason they’re called assets. The girlshave gotten me plenty of free drinks, you know.” She pauses for a moment. “Speaking of which, let’s go to Downrigger’s tonight.”
“Can’t, sorry. I have plans.”
“Tch. I know what your plans are. It’s time to change things up. Make a new tradition.”
“Go out to get drunk instead of staying in?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll pass. Puking in public isn’t a good look for me.”
She scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve never puked in your life. You have zero gag reflex.”
