WHOOSH!! Ga-lump, ga-lump.

Tweak bats a wrapped Werther’s down the hall. The golden candy slides past my office door. I can hear her cat feet sort of running, sort of pogo-sticking, as she galumphs toward her prey. She is wearing it down with her weapons of mass cute.

Me: “Tweak!”

Tweak: “What.” (It’s never a question.)

She stops and squints into my room, catches me scanning OkCupid adverts.

Me: “Where’d you get the Werther’s?” (Distract!)

Tweak: “You left a trail.”

They’re not really adverts; they are profiles of single men that have been written by 12-year-olds. Or possibly chimps.

Me: “When I filled up the bowl, you mean?”

Tweak: “Maybe when you were out, I got up on the table.”

Tweak flashes me a look, then licks evidence off a fuzzy bean toe.

Me: “So, you were poaching.”

Tweak: “I only hunt them for the sport.”

I switch the screen to ‘Firemen R Us.’

Me: “Me, too.”

Tweak leaps onto my chair and digs her claws into my thigh.

Me: “Ow.”

Tweak: “What.”

She coils up on my lap, the chase now so much fool’s gold.

Me: “Hey, I have people to reject. Go get me a Werther’s.”

Tweak: “I can’t. There’s a cat on your lap.”

Me: “You don’t make no sense. And cats make terrible boyfriends.”

Tweak: “All that glitters is…”

Me: “What.”

And she falls asleep, pinning me to a fireman.

 

27 June 2014, “Tolerating Tweak.”