Me: “Tweak, how would you feel about sharing me?”

Tweak: “DID YOU GET A DATE?!?”

I pour coffee into my mug.

Me: “No.”

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?”

I sip.

Me: “You have been raised by wolves.”

Tweak: “Just one. Do you know what they call a she-wolf?”

Me: “Bitch.”

Tweak: “Uh huh.”

 

11 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”