“What’s the consensus? Amputation?” Fat wiggles out of the tight space behind the television with a grace uncharacteristic of my portly feline. Her green eyes brighten with hope when she sees me scuttle into the room.
I drop a pile of library books on the corner of the desk and eye her uncomfortably. “I don’t like the delight on your face accompanying your question. You’re rooting for amputation?”
“I’ve got a bet going with Mutt. We’re trying to guess what’s wrong with you. He’s got three to one odds on cancer.”
“Wrong on both counts.” I look through the window and see Mutt on the balcony, chewing on a bone and oblivious to everything beyond the slobber-coated treasure in his teeth. I look back at Fat. “You’re telling me that his majesty,” my thumb points over my shoulder in Mutt’s direction, “is cognizant enough to participate in the little hobo Vegas you’ve got going on?”
Fat stays quiet for a few seconds, shifting her weight on the television stand. “Okay, fine. He isn’t.”
I pull an elastic out of my bag and tie my hair up. “You lie about the most absurd things.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.” My hands rest on my hips, “How do you even take it as one? We joke about Mutt’s intelligence but you two seem to be on par.”
Fat doesn’t disagree. “If you don’t have any plans this afternoon, perhaps we can take him down to the dog track and race him against a greyhound. I’ll give you ninety-six to one odds on Mutt.”
You don’t know how odds work, do you?” I stay standing in the same position; though I’ve been on my feet all day, sitting doesn’t seem appealing.
“No I do not.” Fat doesn’t even seem embarrassed by being caught in another lie. She shoots a look over to my spot on the couch and stares at me with accusation. “Unless you’re planning on wearing the blue leotard and cape, you should give up that Superman pose.” She watches my hands nonchalantly slide from my hips and into the pockets of my jean shorts. She waits to see if I plan on relocating to the couch. “If it’s not amputation, what did the doctor say? If you’re dying don’t drag this out. The confetti cannons I rented have to be back at five.”
I slowly exhale and empty my lungs, then inhale at the same pace, trying to draw patience from the air. “It’s the damnedest thing, Fat; turns out, for once the pain in my ass isn’t you.” Fat’s forehead lowers when she glares at me. “Apparently I pinched my siatic nerve.”
Instantly, her glowering ceases and her personality flips back around. “You know, that’s a big issue amongst pregnant women.”
“I’m not pregnant, Fat.” I raise a hand trying to physically stop the direction of the conversation.
“Want to bet?”