Tuesday, July 13, 2010

bitter milk, pt. 1

Exactly one week before the end of her world, Rosalind was wondering why patches of fur were falling off. She worried sometimes that she drank too much milk, mostly on mornings like these where she woke up on Winston's couch, hungover and injured in ways she'd probably never figure out. Most of the time she didn't think she really drank that often.

And one week before the end of his world, Winston Stewart was late for work again because he was tending to the hungry and injured kitten sprawled out on his couch, begging for attention again. She was always pulling something like this, and he was always giving in. He grabbed her a saucer and looked around for something to clean up the blood. There had been a lot over the past year. He always berated her or threatened to kick her out or call the catcher, but he never followed through and she never listened. She wasn't listening now, either; she was just licking at a rash on her right forepaw.

"You aren't listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"


"I'm late for work, Rosie." He sighed. "I suppose you'll want some actual food to go with that milk."

"Meow. Meow?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll get a clean towel from the bathroom, too."


No comments:

Post a Comment