“He called me heartless.” My grip on the pillow is so tight I think my fingers are going to break through the fabric and come free with fistfuls of feathers.
Fat leans forward over her notepad and scratches her chin before she replies. “Are you?”
I don’t have to worry about ruining the pillow anymore. It flies at Fat and knocks her off the table. Home run.
“You really have to stop doing that.” Fat leaps back onto the table and stares at her empty legal pad.
“Why do you have that anyways? You can’t write. You don’t even have a pen.” I cross my arms over my chest and sit back.
“It’s a prop that offers me a certain amount of credibility I like to think.” Fat readjusts the phony spectacles on her nose, “Now then, where were we? Yes. Heartless. Go.” She silently extends a paw though she were a director giving a cue for action.
“It happened not five minutes ago. You were here for the whole thing.”
She snickers. “I know. I just want to hear how it happened from your perspective.”
“What’s to tell? Bachelor number two was here. We were playing some Dutch Blitz (it’s a vonderful goot game) and he attempted to say something sweet. For some reason, what he came up with in the moment was an earnest look while he said, ‘I think you’re perfect.'” Fat bursts out laughing. “That was my initial reaction too, Fat.”
“I know,” She’s laughing too hard to catch her breath. “It was awesome.”
“See? I’m not a complete jackass. Who says that?”
“And then,” Fat tries to breathe through her nose to calm down, “and then that’s when he calls you heartless and bids you good night.” Another round of laughter bursts out of her.
I can’t stifle it anymore and I catch the giggles all over again; the laughter shakes me so hard I fall sideways on the couch. When that happens, we both laugh louder and the momentum continues for a few minutes.
When it finally subsides, Fat cranes her neck around like an owl. “Damn. Lost my glasses at some point. Oh well.” She curls up and resembles a furry sphere, “If it’s so hilarious, why were you pissed off by the comment?”
“His implication being that I don’t have a heart. Just because I haven’t let him have it doesn’t mean he should doubt its existence.” I push myself back up to sitting and sit cross-legged on the sofa.
“He does seem upset that you haven’t at least shown it to him. He just wants you to trust him with it.”
“It’s not a cheap knick knack at a garage sale, Fat. It can stay in the cage right now.”
“Cage is the metaphor you’re going with?” Her head tilts to the side with misunderstanding.
I point at my sternum. “Rib cage. Literal.”
“You can’t hoard it forever you know. It’s meant to be shared.” Fat gets up and goes over to the scratch post. Her nails dig and scrape the side a few times before she looks at me over her shoulder knowingly. “I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
“He thinks he’s your Boyfriend.”