Tweak: “WHERE IS HE??”

Tweak dashes to a room, stops.

Tweak: “You said he was coming last night?!”

She dashes to another room, stops. Yells.

Tweak: “You said he was bringing his lap!”

She attacks a throw rug, biting the corners and folding it like an origami swan. Or a Tasmanian devil.

Tweak: “You said he was bringing The Girlfriend that feeds me ice cream!”

Tweak races up the couch at a diagonal, hurdles over a chair, and dives onto her tower of blankets. She punishes the top fleece by whipping it to the floor and then stomping the life out of it. It’s the Parkour of the Pissed Off.

Tweak: “I need that girl’s lap. I knead that girl’s lap.”

She’s chanting now, abusing homophones.

She leaps up into my lap, even though it’s obviously inadequate, and stabs a claw through my thigh, whisper-breathing into my face.

Tweak: “Where. Are. They.” It is not a question. Her assassin’s breath is hot and serious.

Me: “Calm down, Tweak.”

She inhales, making the attempt. She exhales, hissing, failing.

Tweak: “I am calm.”

She stabs three or four peaceful shivs into my leg to prove it.

Me: “Tweak, The Boy got on an airplane in Florida last night, and the plane flew him to Chicago. The plane stopped flying because of something called ‘weather’ and they made The Boy get out.”

Tweak: “Did you sick bastards evolve thumbs just to torture me?”

Me: “The Boy had to spend the night there.”

Tweak: “They eat people in Chicago!”

Me: “He’s wiry. He will not be first choice in the Cannibal Scramble.”

Tweak: “He needs to hurry up so he can pet me.”

She deflates. All of Tweak’s rage melts into my lap, my lap that is imperfect but convenient.

Tweak: “I miss him.”

I stroke a finger over her forehead.

Me: “He will be here tomorrow before you finish your second breakfast.”

I rub the soft fur behind her ears.

Tweak: “You’re doing it wrong.”

 

25 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”