Me: “Tweak, how would you feel about sharing me?”
Tweak: “DID YOU GET A DATE?!?”
I pour coffee into my mug.
I add caramel sauce and Splenda.
Me: “No, I haven’t been that lucky.”
Tweak does not care that I’m turning my morning inoculation into a liquid candy bar. Until I open the fridge.
Tweak: “Does getting a date depend on luck?”
I pour cream into my coffee. Tweak watches me manipulate the carton like I’m David Copperfield conjuring, well, cream. Tweak begs in and out of my legs, purring like a Kardashian. I disappear the cream back in the fridge.
Tweak: “Or are you just a bitch?”
Me: “No, Tweak. I have high standards.”
Tweak: “Like what?”
Me: “I prefer men with hair. And brains. And a tiny birthmark on the back of one leg in the shape of an otter.”
I snap the lid shut on my Tim Horton’s mug and stick an extra-long straw through the hole. Tweak shakes her head.
Tweak: “Women who drink coffee from straws otter re-think their standards.”
Tweak licks the shame of association from her hands.
Me: “You’re hilarious. Besides, I wasn’t talking about a DATE.”
She combs a corrugated trail down her pink belly.
Me: “How would you feel if I got a second cat?”
Tweak halts mid-lick and slowly retracts her tongue. Cleopatra’s asp bore less malice.
Tweak: “Do you suppose that your dates prefer you dead or alive? Or can they even tell the difference?”
Me: “You have been raised by wolves.”
Tweak: “Just one. Do you know what they call a she-wolf?”
Tweak: “Uh huh.”
11 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”