Clouds were greying, the sky darkening. The café thinned out until it was only a few of us left, miles apart from each other. The man that was struggling with the WiFi looked out the window, his bag packed and slung over one shoulder. I followed his gaze, looking at the traffic blur past and the store fronts close. Herds of people flow down the sidewalk going home,different shapes and sizes but the same expression: heads low, sleepy eyes and worn out cheeks. At the same time another group of people head upstream. Night-shift. I looked back, the man left, his chair tucked in. I signalled for the waiter, she walked up with a practised smile and the bill. I swiped and packed my stuff ready to leave when the same waitress called out to me, “Call her… she probably got caught up”. I nodded and left the café.

I kicked off my shoes as I entered my apartment, walked to the fridge and opened it. I stared at the empty racks and a singular pizza box in the middle. I closed the fridge and headed bedroom, skipping between discount furniture. I texted her again: “You good J? I ate some black forest cake in your honour”. I plugged my phone in the wall, sat my laptop on my desk and headed back to the kitchen. I through in two slices of pizza in the microwave, found a clean cup and poured a tall glass of water. When the microwave rang I pulled out the slices — the cheese spitting and the meat re-cooked — and ate the burning slices, when the heat got too hot I had the water to save me.

From the way the light in my room looked, it was around seven. Outside traffic was still roaring — car engines, radios, road-rage — keeping my apartment from going dead. I was looking for a quite place near where I worked, two things I thought were impossible but some how I landed this place. At first the silence was great. I could unwind from the day, then a month in I realized I had neighbours. A ghost quite couple, only nodding when I greeted them; an old man who lived on the bottom floor under my apartment, only talked to me when I make “too much noise”; a young guy my age who reads all day when he’s at home and disappears for half the month; we haven’t spoken yet. The traffic is mostly the only sound that breaks the silence and on weekends the traffic disappears. I’ve been thinking of moving. Searching on the internet for a places, snooping around too, but I haven’t moved or made plans to move. No commitment. I scroll through pages and pages looking at the interiors, imagining myself in them then scroll through the next picture. Maybe I’m a captive to this place, maybe I can’t live anywhere else, or maybe I’m too scared to leave this place. To pack my stuff in a truck. To meet new people. To have a new bedroom.

The sun’s gone. The pizza is finished. I put my plate in the sink, let the water run for a while then headed to my bedroom. Inside my bedroom I pull out my laptop, plug it into the wall and open the lid. A half-finished Word Doc opens up, five paragraphs, 700 words. I skim through the paragraphs editing bits and pieces, here and there. I want this story to be about this depressed kid and his hyper religious parents, how his parents take him to all sorts of places to help the kid but nothing works and he is still depressed. The parents struggle, using everything that they no to fix this kid — even shouting at him — but nothing works. I think I’ll throw in a couple supernatural elements to; a couple angels, a demon, maybe a portal to the underworld. I have some ideas for the ending too; one ending could be that the kid dies or gets seriously injured in a suicide attempt; another one could be that an angel saves the kid and the parents see it; the last one could be that an angel tells this kids parents how to help their son and the last line would be them in a group hug. I type a few words then backspace the paragraph to nothing. I save, close Word and open YouTube.

My phone rings. Janet. She breathes in my ear — in, out — does one of those tongue that she does, then more silence. For a while we both say nothing. I pause the video, close the laptop and wait.

“Hey”, I said.

“Hey”, she whispered.

“You good?”

“Yeah… sorry for today, hey. I just…”

“No, it’s okay…. I’m glad to hear from you. Really, really missed you.”

“Me too!” She giggled.

Silence. “Can I come over? You know to make up for today and everything….”

“Don’t worry about it. We can resched—”

“No, no, no… I want to see you today. Please can I come over?”

“Sure… I don’t have much food here sadly. Just some sad pizza.”

“How sad?”

“Umm… clinically depressed”

“That’s really bad. I guess I’ll have to buy some buddies for it. Chinese? Or some Fast-food junk?”

“Janet, don’t worry about it —”

“No it’s fine. It will be fun… like a party for just the two of us!”

“Okay”

“Okay… see you soon”

Janet hung up. I walked into my living room picking up different knick-knacks from the floor, the sofa’s and the table. I ran some water through a swab added a dash of dishwashing liquid and scrubbed down my counters and cupboard doors. I gave all the floor a quick mop; kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. After all that work, I changed out my day clothes and put on a white shirt, hoodie and shorts. I went back to YouTube, after three or so football videos I went over to the window. Opposite my apartment complex, past the court yard dotted and greenery, prostitutes line the sidewalks. Each one occupying their own little pocket of space, waiting impatiently for a customer to roll by. A car stops and the closest three swarm the driver window. One gets in the car and the others fall back into formation. This is why I try to get home as soon as possible, to avoid them. Avoiding their tight clothes, micro-skirts and fake hair. Once I say a poor guy being hounded by them. As he walked past their ranks, one-by-one they swarmed him, probably saying all sorts of things, “Baby, you want a good time?” or other things. They surrounded him and started touching him. He shook his head like a swarm of bees attacked him, then he dashed through a small gap, bumping into one of them. He crossed the road and paced out of my view. The prostitutes went back in formation.

An hour or so flies past, the same five prostitutes on the street. Janet flies thought the street and stops by the gate. I walk over to my console just in time for the buzz. “Hey Jonny! Open up!”. I press open. I hear her walk out the stairs, stomping like mad as she gets closer to my door.

I swung open my door. “Janet… noise”

“Yeah I know… you told me about the guy”

“So you want to get me in trouble?”

“A little”, she smiled.

We hugged. I took the plastic bag steaming with Chinese food, weighted by a six-pack of soda drinks. We entered my apartment and Janet shut the down and stomped around a bit, laughing the whole way. She wore over sized nude trousers, a yellow top, a cape-like wind breaker — also nude — and white sneakers. Her long black hair glistened with her jewellery in my kitchen light.

“Those bitches are getting desperate. Business must be low”

“You think?”

“Totally… while I was walking here they were like ‘Hey Babe!’ I walked faster and they started calling some more. I swear they were about to cross the road but they didn’t. Weird isn’t it?”

“They do that. It’s like they are stuck to their place on the sidewalk”

“Social distancing huh”

“Probably” I laughed.

I brought the pizza from the fridge as Janet threw her handbag on my sofa, she waltzed over to the counter and ripped a can out the package. I took out some plates — one white, one lime-green — and poured out the Chinese take-out in them. Janet opened the pizza box and laughed ate the sad slices. I jumped in to with quips of my own, joking about how much it longed to die and be in our stomachs. She wanted to give them anti-depressants. We both bowed over laughing.

We ate the Chinese food next to each other on my sofa. We talked about work. Her boss was getting more and more aggressive, Janet thinkings it’s a divorce because she isn’t wearing her ring anymore; some of her collogues don’t believe it’s a divorce but they do agree it’s something to do with her marriage. I talked about how the work internet keeps on dropping and how its put the entire office into chaos, everyone blaming someone else; the IT guys blaming the marketing guys for using too much, marketing blaming accounts and so on. The conversation died a bit. We started talking about friends we had. A friend of mine had a birthday coming up. One of her friends got a new car from her boyfriend — SUV, black, brand new. We started shipping Oscar, a mutual friend, with other people we knew. We tried finding girls that matched his type — short black hair, glasses, likes arcades — finding no one he hasn’t dated before. We tried others and some wild cards. I went over to get my phone and we scrolled Instagram looking for potential matches. After an hour or so we concluded that it was hopeless. We laughed.

“I once wanted to be one of them, you know”, Janet said.

“Who?”

“One of those… hoes…”

“You lie!”

“No seriously… I once wanted to be one of them for real. For real. When I was a little girl I swear I wanted to be like them”

“No you didn’t”

“Serious”

“Why?”

“It’s actually quite funny” She laughed, “My mom was driving, I was in the back just looking around. I was really late, I forgot why we were driving so late, but I was looking out and I saw these hoes standing on the sidewalk. So I asked my mom, ‘What are these ladies doing on the sidewalk?’ and my mom told me, ‘Oh… they are standing around looking pretty.’ So I was like ‘why?’ and do you know what my mom told me?”

“What?”

“She said, ‘For money’. So in my little girl mind I thought that was so cool, to stand on the sidewalk and look pretty for money! For a long time, John, a really long time I wanted to be a prostitute until I learned about what they do and everything…”

“Serious?” I laughed. “How old were you?”

“Young. Like… maybe seven? Like really young…”

“That’s mad”

“And you know what? I learned about prostitutes the same day I learned about sex. Like I wanted to die that day it was so bad”

“A double gut punch”

“You know….”

Janet buried her face in her hands, laughing the whole time. She started snorting, my sides started burning. I told her about they day I learned about sex. It was a normal grade seven day — play in the morning, some classes then break-time. But after break-time we were set to our home-rooms, nothing too strange about that, but the mood was strange. We could feel it. We all sat on our desks not whispering or anything. Our home-room teacher told us that she was going to bring in a new teacher for the “special talk”. I remember giving a letter to my parents about the “special talk” but I thought it was something fun. Our home-room teacher left, talked to the new teacher for a bit behind the door and the new teacher walked in. She had wrinkles and some of her skin sagged, especially around her hands. She also wore that perfume that all the teachers wore, all the teachers were old. But she smiled more than all the other teachers, she wore younger clothes — a t-shirt, and jeans — and she had short hair, not pulled back but actually cut short. This new teacher walked holding a tripod with diagrams on them and addressed the class. Then she began with her talk. I’ve mostly forgotten what she said exactly, but I do remember how the whole class started wincing as the talk continued, the more we winced the more she smiled. I believe we learned all about the male and female reproductive system, the general mechanics of sex, girl periods and where babies come from. Then it ended, she asked if anyone had questions but no hands went up. I had a lot of question, the whole class too, but I didn’t raise my hand, I just wanted it to end.

Janet’s eyes darting through me. My eyes meeting hers then I looked away. We sat in silence, my legs were crossed, hers too. My throat got very dry suddenly. I wanted to get up and drink something, but I couldn’t. Janet sniffed, whipped away her tears with her sleeve but the tear still flowed. Right before I could ask her what was wrong, she grabbed my hand.

“You are probably wondering where I was today?”

“No not at all —”

“I went to a place… Crystal told me about it. You know Crystal, right?”

“Yeah”

“She told me about this place, she gave me a flier for this place —”

“What place?”

“It’s a place… it’s like confession booths, but without priests.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you go in and there’s a waiting room full of seats and a receptionist and you wait for a free spot and then you go into one of these booths. And there’s a seat for you and a wall and behind the wall there’s like a psychologist or something, but a mental health profession and you start saying shit…”

“Hey… Hey, Janet… are you okay?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’m okay... I’m a bad person”

“Hey, hey… what makes you think like that?”

“Because I am… I did something really bad once”

“Janet… tell me what happened in that ‘place’, what happened?”

“I… I confessed. I told the… person about what I did to a boyfriend I had once. He was so good and I did love him for real, but… I don’t know… I just felt that he was cheating. I checked his texts, Instagram even his e-mail but found nothing. I accused him tons of times and we got in tons of arguments, and he kept on telling me he wouldn’t do such a thing. But I could feel it. I knew he was cheating.

I cheated on him… I figure that if he is cheating on me then I better return the favour. I fucking hate the guy I was cheating with… but I just wanted to hurt my boyfriend so I continued. My boyfriend found out and we got in this crazy argument. I was crying. He was so pissed he started punching the walls and breaking shit with his bare hands. I told him why I cheated, because he was cheating and he lost his shit, telling me ‘I have never done any shit like that ever, I don’t even watch porn anymore!’ then he broke a glass cup with his hand, cutting it really badly. Then he asked me for proof on his phone. I didn’t have any. So he threw his phone across the room and it shattered. We broke up.

I wasn’t going to let him break the story first… so I broke the story to all my friends and his friends that he cheated on me… and I made shit up to hurt him… and… and it worked. It worked…. they all believed me.”

Janet threw her face into my chest; her tears seeping warmth through my shirt, her muffled cries, her shivering body. Over a thousand thoughts race through my mind, all urgent, all a blur. Her face appears, then disappears. My living room, my apartment, the whole day. All is left is her body on mine. I put my arms around her. She cries harder. I squeeze some more and she latches around my neck, her face gliding past my our face. Her legs wrapped around me, I fell on the sofa; a cushion under my head, a plate under my tail bone.

For a while she cried while held her. I felt her breathing, the little rumbles in and the jerky out. Her heartbeat jumping on and off beat when she tried to hold back only to blurt out everything, her digging nails into my back. I whispered “It’s okay” as softly as I could, rubbing her back. She screamed in my ear, and I continued to tell her it was okay. Soon her grip loosened, her legs unwrapped and her breathing cooled. Her heartbeat ran a steady rhythm, her breathing softer.

I slid under her, moving my hips first then torso and my limbs. I slid on the floor, then I pulled the plate from under her, inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre. Once I got the plate free I headed to the sink. I opened the tap slightly, letting the faucet drip. When the plate was fully waterlogged, I cleared the rest of my place; whipping the coffee table, organising the cushions. From my room I took a dark grey, thick blanket and headed to Janet. She was balled up in the middle of the sofa, peaceful as a meadow. As I place the blanket, Janet automatically latched on to it and rolled. I lifted her head and slid a cushion under, pulling her hair away from her face.

I went to my room and watched YouTube, I watched the Youtubers move, the animations and graphics but not the video itself. I closed my browser and stared at the blank desktop, watching the minutes tick by. It was eleven, outside a car stopped and left off minutes later. Three prostitutes were left on the sidewalk. One squatted taking huffing away at a cigarette, another leaned against the wall, the last one scouted the street for a car.

I walked out the bedroom and sat on a chair, stared at the blank wall with Janet in the corner of my eye. I wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything. I just couldn’t sleep or bare to have her sleep in the living room. Perhaps it’s my chivalry telling me to do this. Or maybe it was because she cried all over my chest that I feel I need to watch over her. Maybe. But there was something else. I looked at her, analysed how she slept; the way her body rose and shrunk as she breathed, the way the blanket outlined her body, the peacefulness on her face. I remember when my parents left the house for the night, they went to a night prayer or something. We ate all the sweets in the sweets cupboard and drank all the soda, mom left real food in the oven but decided to have a party instead. We got all our pillows and played Playstation until the late hours of the night. My brother knocked out first, sleeping on the bare carpet. I played a couple more game by myself then packed everything up and….

Maybe Janet reminds me of my brother. Maybe I miss him after all these years. I went to his Instagram page, scrolled through his new life away from me. Him posing with new people, in new places. His clothes are new. His job is new. His smile is new. Janet’s here. I have pictures with Janet. Janet always wears those white sneaks. Janet brought Chinese.

“Morning” Janet said. I wake up covered in my blanket and Janet’s sheepish smile. “I woke up sometime ago… I used your shower, hope you don’t mind…”

“No, not at all” I yawned.

“You know… you didn’t need to… watch over me. But thanks”

“Oh… no I just slept on this chair…”

“Okay…” she whispered. She looked down, bit her lip then walked over to the window. “Am I the first girl to sleep over in this apartment?”

“... kinda…”

“Serious?”

“Unfortunately”

“Like not even one of those hoes from down the street?”

“They actually frighten me… they might mug me”

“So I’m a pioneer? The first one, right?”

“Well not like that —”

“No like what?”

“I mean we didn’t do… anything. I mean… we didn’t sleep… with… each other”

“John, what the fuck are you talking about?” she laughed, “Am I the first girl to sleep over here, yes or no?”

“Yes”

“That’s all I wanted know… Silly”

Twitter: @TJohnShumba

Out the back door of the kitchen there is a porch with a singular chair. A chair that waits for me every winter and abandons me every summer — abandoning me first before I abandon it. I sit down on it at eight, waiting for the sun to peek over the houses and walls to warm me up for the day. Sometimes its early, sometimes late. Sometimes the chair is pre-warmed, sometimes I brave the icy winds. But I always get my twenty or so minutes. Then go back into the kitchen, eat some bread and butter. As I chew I think of the tasks I have to do; who I need to talk to, the e-mails I need to write, the articles I need to write as well. A deep droning anxiety hums in the back of my head, worrying about old and new clients. Will they like what I have done? Will they pay me? Will they continue to choose me in stead of someone else?

I walk over icy marble tile of the kitchen, then the even more icy marble of the hallway — all bare foot — to my room. I don’t remember when I started walking bare foot at home but it just stuck. My mother would always tell me to wear shoes, then she asked if my feet were cold, then the topic of my bare feet never rose up again. My dad didn’t mind to much during summer, winter was another thing. As the years strode along I felt weird not wearing shoes, like how some people can’t walk around without socks, I can’t not be bare. In heat or in cold, my feet will be bare. Luckily all the bedrooms are carpeted and I can be free to be bare as I write.

My desk. My work station. My forge. I work — and not work — for hours on end. When my door is closed all is jazz, structured but with space for expression — ad libitum. Sometimes I tackle work head on with the ferocity of a lion, resting only when everything is devoured. Other times I slack off — play video games, read novels — then feverishly finish before the deadline. And everything on between. Jazz like all genres of music can sometimes hit and sometimes miss. There is jazz done badly and jazz done beautifully. I make sure that I always finish before the deadline, everything fully edited with a day or two to spare. The hum in the back of my head keeps me on track.

In the evenings dinner is served. Four hot steaming plates for the four of us. Mom. Dad. Brother. Me. Mother next to dad, the children next to each other opposite the parents. We pray, and attack our plates. A topic is thrown on the table; how the day had been, how work is doing and so on. The usual. Something deeper sometimes gets thrown, three attack it but I say on the sidelines, most of the time I have nothing to say about the topic. When the topic has been disgust in its entirety, silence. Each to their own plate, each to their own digestion, each to their own world.

Then the night sets in. I look back at all that I’ve done for the day then workout. In the dead of night I feel the workout more. I feel each muscle burn, the impact with the floor as I run, and my own heavy breath. A light sweat dampens my face. My breathing laboured. My muscles scream. Pain shooting aimless. I feel good. When I go to bed a warm halo-like haze hugs me like it misses me.

Some nights I stare into the void of darkness. My eyes heavy. I yawn. But I never submit to my drowsiness— not until the night ages. One night I was remembering a long lost friend of mine. We last were in contact when we were young, in pre-school. I don’t remember his name. Barely remember his face. I can picture a boy with light brown skin and nothing more… the memory has all gone fuzzy and warped with generation loss. But I can feel what that friendship meant to the three year old version of me. How I wanted every moment with him. How I needed to sit next to him during class, and the total despair when that was impossible. A vague memory plays were we are out in the sun playing football with other kids. As young kids usually do, we were all bunched up together kick the ball and each other. I was next to him. Cut. I was in space near the “goals”, the ball floated in and I tapped it in for a goal. All the other kids were celebrating, but I didn’t truly celebrate until I celebrated with him. The tape plays and replays that same scene. Cut. Tears flow down my cheeks but I don’t feel sad or nostalgic. I don’t feel. I don’t feel anything.

Another night a dark cold consumed me from the inside out. I shivered and shook but I felt no warmer. I got out of my bed, jogged on the spot for a while, put on layers and layers on top, jumped back into bed, but I still shivered. I rubbed my hands together. Leg with leg too. I was still cold. I thought I was having chills, but I didn’t cough or feel sick in general. I got out my bed and jogged again — my legs were burning and I could feel a cramp coming — then jumping-jacks and press ups. I felt fine. I flopped back in my bed. The warm haze missing, replaced by that cold. I balled up in a heap of layers, blankets and covers. Hoping for that hug. Any hug. Anyone to wrap their arms around me.

I wake up.

White shirt, black shorts and a camo hoodie. If the day gets colder I’ll wear one of tracksuit bottoms — either the black one or and grey one. My legs lead me to the porch outside the kitchen. I say lead because my mind is still trying to figure out last night. My dream was so-so. 4/10. A bland unimaginative rework of yesterday’s events. Nothing interesting about the fake events and low in the accuracy score on the true events. The elephant was overkill and cliché. I find my self seated on my seat waiting for the sun. Cracked concrete spawns ants ready for today’s shift. They march past chair, past the concrete, into the dirt. The sun peeks over the horizon. The day begins.

The beams cut through the morning cold. I can feel the blood course through my veins, the first time this morning. Heat runs up my legs, over my knees and to my shorts. The air is dry. My nose runs, I check to see if its mucus or blood with my sleeve. I’m happy to see a clear line on my sleeve…a bush rustles. Stop. Continue. I fail to make its shape, but nothing. It comes closer. My heart thumps my chest. It stops. It moves. I’m nearly off my seat looking for a weapon to hold, anything to level the playing field. The grass shrills. A crunch. Then another fleeting shrill. I look up, the stray cat stares back.

At school I befriended the local cat. SC is was called, School Cat. Like most stray cats, she just wondered in and took care of the local rat population, but SC didn’t leave. Instead she boldly sat in front off the staff room and meowed until someone gave her some food. At first the teachers were annoyed, then they feel for her. There was something about her boldness that melted the hearts of even the heartless. She was given a collar and her own bowl after a month.

She later became fully established at school, regularly walking into class rooms through the door and sitting in the back. She would sleep or sit statue until just before the bell rang when she would leave. SC could also be found among the flowerbeds, keeping her hunting instincts sharp. She would stalk, prowl and pounce on incests. Though she looked like she was having fun, I knew that she it wasn’t all fun and games. It was work. These were the moments of her training montage, what she was training for no one knew. Her face looked worked and tired after those sessions, then off to the sun to sleep.

“SC, here, knows the school timetable better than me!” my English teacher once told the the class. SC strode in, took a quick glance at my English teacher, their eyes meant, they nodded, and SC took her place in the back. During that lesson — literature, Shakespeare — I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. A gnawing sensation coming from the far left, below me. The lesson went on. my ears heard, I faced the front but I couldn’t ignore SC. I could feel her inquisitive gaze ripping through the monotony of the lesson. Perhaps this is what she does, she studies humans to be adopted, I thought. She could be looking at anyone in this room, she is not looking at you.

The bell rang. SC was still in the room. We packed. We left. As I walked out the door, SC gaze followed. I forgot about that lesson, about SC and about that feeling. My mind was fully focused on maths. I entered the room, sat at my seat and gave my Maths teacher my homework. Of course there was drama, someone always forgets their homework and we waist a good 20 minutes. The guys who forgot their homework were out the room doing it on the ground. I tackled my math problems while thinking of something else. From the corner of my eye, SC was sitting tall looking through the class window. I snapped back, I was finding X. After looping through a set of logical obstacles I found X. Next question. SC was still looking through. Find X. I found X. She was still looking.

Throughout the day, I was plagued by thoughts of SC. In some lessons she didn’t appear. In others she did. At break-time she was looking over were the form fours hung out, the second storey above the art pavilion. It was now four p.m.. I was by myself, reading a novel. All my friends were picked up. My age mates too. I finished my homework and now I was waiting. SC walked over. She stood five metres away. She sat and began to study me. I stuffed my nose into my book, shielding my eyes from her. She walk over. Stopped. Sat. Studied. She continued until she was half a metre away from me. She stopped and lied on the ground, her eyes closed. We shared silence with each other.

I found myself possessed by the idea that I should touch her. Goosebumps littered my body and back. SC stood walked closer and fell by my foot. Her eyes closed again, but this time I could see her eyes were only half closed. I understood what she wanted me to do. So I stretched out my hand and stroked her. She let out a soft low purr.

The next day, SC walked in during my English lesson, rubbed past my leg and head to her spot in the back. Then midway through she stood to sit next to me. At the end of that day SC leap onto my lap when everybody left and balled into a cute black fur-ball. Her breathing relaxed and effortless. The same thing happened the next day and the next. Soon I was playing with SC during break-time. Soon the whole school was abuzz with the news.

I will never forget the day she died. It was late. She was balled on my lap purring. My dad pulled over. That was supposed to be the the cue for SC to jump off, but she didn’t, she just looked at me. Her eyes were sad. She never looked sad or worried. She always had sharp eyes, eyes of a hunter. Her body shrivelled up and she meowed. I tried to shoo her off. She meowed. I picked her up and placed her on the ground, SC meowed in protest — soft, hushed — but didn’t fight. I swung my bag or my shoulder. SC sat on the cold evening, meowing softer and softer. I waved goodbye. I got into the car. SC in the rear-view sat in the same spot, then she walked inside the school grounds. Her head low, each step slow.

The next day, my English teacher took me out of the class to tell me that SC was hit by a car. She hugged me and told me to take as much time as I needed. I was in the corridor alone trying to think. I tried and tried but all was blank. I couldn’t string a single clear line of thought in that moment. All I could here was SC’s sad meow.

I sat up , faced the sun and waited. From the corner of my eye I could see the stray eyeing me. His head tilting, ears twitching; seated then standing on all fours. He crept closer, a paw at a time. His eyes locked on a sun spot, a few metres from my leg, a rectangle of early morning sun. Step by step he crept, stalking the spot, a sharp look at me then back to the spot. I sat still, cooling my breath, calming my heartbeat. Every deep breathe brought him closer and closer. Until he balled up in the furthest corner of the rectangle. It worked!

I tried to hid my smile, I didn’t want anything to chase him away. So I closed my eyes, letting the sun beam into my closed lids. Then a few hours passed. I woke up to see the stray sound asleep, but I woke him up straight afterwards with the chair scraping the floor. The stray whipped up and ran in one movement. He was now a good ten metres from me dashing into the bushes.

I was behind. All sorts of deadlines were due and other projects needed to be started. My wrists burned after typing so much but I bit down and continued through the pain. Turning up the music to max, the “bangers” playlist roaring in my ears, I typed quicker and wasted no time with useless adverbs. So I thought. With the deadline tailing me, I spent more time editing my haphazard copy then typing it in the first place. My head was bursting. Teeth grinding. Tight muscles. That’s the cue. Time to get some air.

The sun was out, a rare summer afternoon in winter. I left my hoodie inside. I walked a fair distance, trying not to think about the deadlines, trying to enjoy the outdoors. God gifted us with good weather. But I was still jerky. I looked to the clouds, the floor, the falling leaves, but my mind often felt and sat in front of my laptop, working on the copy. I needed to breathe. I needed to be centre. To be mindful. To enjoy this moment, this moment in time, this day the the lord made, this time in the place in time-space, or is it space-time?

The stray looked on, on top of a large stone. His head tilted. Quizzical eyes darting at me.

“Mind your own business”, I told him.

The stray tilted his head all the way to the other side.

“I’m trying to relax”

The stray nodded.

“Well, whatever… stop acting like you understand what I’m saying”

The stray rested, his front paws crossing in front, letting a silent yawn.

“What’s wrong with you anyway? Why aren’t you running off or something?”

The stray let out a growling purr.

“So what do you want me to do? Talk about my problems? My deep dark problems?”

He meowed yes.

“Can you actually understand me?”

He meowed yes.

“Like… you can understand everything I’m saying? Everything I’m actually saying?”

Yes. With a slight nod.

I talked to him about my deadlines, the stray absorbed, nodding here and there and letting out a meow for approval and that growling purr when he was bored. After an hour or so I ran out of things to talk about. My mind was empty, clear as crystal. After a bit of meows and a purr he walked toward another bush. I asked if we could do it again the next day the stray answered a long drawn out meow, something like “Yeah, whatever”.

I stepped inside, through on my hoodie and edited the rest of my copy. After a bit of work I was done. I submitted the copy in an e-mail, then started looking at cat memes. With every cat picture I saw, the memory of the stray would flash before me. His meows, his growl. His white and brown coat. His eyes. The more I replayed our conversation the more questions I had, the more things I wanted to say. This wasn’t the first time I had a bad case of staircase wit or staircase topics but this time I was limited. I couldn’t call him. I couldn’t text him. There wasn’t — to my knowledge — a Cat version of e-mail too. I had to wait for the next day.

During dinner I talked less than usual. When asked I said that I was still thinking of work and stuffed my mouth with food. They talked about something. I nodded. I cleared my plate, washed every plate near the sink and thank mom for the food. Worked out earlier than usual. I barely got a sweat running before I jumped into bed. I ran some questions for stray — silly things, serious things — for the next day. In the dark, I decided to name stray. Katze seemed to be the best name for stray. Something foreign yet common. Something close but far. Katze is German for “Cat”, something I stumbled on when I was messing around on Google translate. I threw a whole bunch of words but Katze is the only one I remember. Yes, I am a cat person but I’m a curious one too. I have never owned a cat — my mom hates them — so all my love for felines is from afar. The school cat was always some what stray, though she had a collar and a name. I loved her, the first time I have ever loved anything that wasn’t human. With SC it made sense, I loved her. Then she died.

I woke up earlier than my alarm, my cold toes woke me up. My room was dark, lit by the eerie morning light, six on the clock. The carpet was ice cold, like wet ice. I change out my PJs, wore longs, the thermal ones I got from my aunt and a random shirt and sweater. I switched on my laptop, read through e-mails, nothing new. Looked over my projects, three still active due in a couple days. Opened all the docs, reading through all I did the days before. I choose to continue with the article for a tech company, 500 words done, the post is simple enough.

My alarm rang. I switched it off and headed down outside. My heart started racing halfway out the room. I ran back into my room, pressed ctrl+S, then headed out again still a bit shaky. In the kitchen I stole a bite; bread, jam, peanut butter. The sun was already rising. Maybe Katze is out already?

Katze stretched in the sun rectangle then balled. I was temped to pet him, but his eye stopped me. I sat in silence, only movie to get comfortable. The air picked up a little, rising then standing still. I tried to fined something to say, everything from the night before vanished without a trace. A thick fog clouded my current thoughts too. Bored, Katze tried keeping his head up, then the sun hit him, his ball got smaller and tighter. He looked at me. I looked back. He closed his eyes. Fast asleep.

Just like the day before, when I got up Katze left. This time I was quite. Katze also left slower, strolling into the bushes. I got back to my desk. I typed and typed. Backspaced almost everything, then typed again. The fog was still heavy; ideas, words and grammar unrecognisable in muck. I saved what I did. 1000 words survived but a few of them will be dead. More than a few. I opened up solitaire. Click. Click. Click. I closed solitaire mid-game. Out my window, Katze was pacing back and forth by some flower pots. His head low, stomping on the floor almost. I wonder what he was thinking about. What struggles was he going through? What was he punishing himself for? I saw a meme were a cat ran up to her owner after some of her food was eaten by another pet. She was so angry! Katze was not that angry, though.

That afternoon told Katze about SC. I told him about how we met and how it all ended. Katze listened. Really listened. His ears were pointed at the start, all the fun parts of our relationship. His ears drooped, eyes tearing up when I talked about the end. I was tearing up too. I was something about Katze, how he reacted — his eyes, his posture, his ears — that hit me. SC flashed next to Katze, then SC vanished leaving her cries for me. Katze started shivering, letting out cold long cries. Katze’s cry. SC’s cry. Both singing to me, burning my ears.

“I don’t know if you can understand me”, I began, “But I can’t take care of you. I can’t…”

Katze let out a sad meow.

“My mom hates cats… above that, I can’t feed you… you know. Food is expensive for humans, let alone a cat.”

I know, Katze meowed.

“I know you wanted me to adopt you… I know you chose that place near me to get closer to me…” — tears ran down my face — “I mean I have a hard time taking care of my self… I still live with my parents. I don’t make enough to live off of too. I’m just still a kid. I’m sorry…”

Katze walked over to me. I bent over picked him up and hugged him. I brought him to my chest. He purred — sweet, soft — right next to my ear. As I cried, Katze rubbed his face on wet cheek, saying “It’s okay”. I sat down in the dirt and continued to hold him.

“I think you should leave… I think its for the best” I whispered. Katze blinked slowly, then struggled out my hands. He walked down the driveway, skipped on the flower bed and again on the wall. He looked back, called to me one last time then jumped over the wall. He was gone.

I stepped inside. Washed my face. Headed to the kitchen. Toasted some bread. Slide butter over the warm toast, watching the butter ooze into a liquid. I ate the sandwich, ripping it into bite sizes before throwing them in my mouth. I then sat at my desk. Backspace. Everything. Start afresh.

Twitter: @TJohnShumba

It’s eight. Out pure habit she wakes up at eight on weekends and earlier on weekdays. It’s a strange thing that she does, no need for an alarm she just wakens. Her father used to call her roster when she was younger, she used to make so much noise when she woke up. She would run around, scream, turn the TV on loud to watch early morning cartoons. When she got older the running, screaming and TV turned to loud yawns, singing and her morning playlist on blast.

It’s eight thirty now and she is still in bed. At any moment now her mother will burst into her room and start mothering her to death. Asking all sorts of questions on her health or if she was hiding something from her or something else completely. She musters all her strength and sits up. The full power of her dizziness overwhelms her, she holds the bridge of her nose hoping her nose doesn’t explode all over her bed, blood or otherwise. Her stomach warms, turns, twists and bubbles. She regrets everything.

Eight forty-one, she is happy that its just nausea. She bent over the toilet bowl holding her hair waiting for nothing to come out. She turns on the shower, testing the warm water, then jumps in. There is no point in taking a long bath today, she would just sleep in the tub like that other time; her mother burst in worried that she did something stupid.

“Are you okay darling?” Her mother crept in, sliding herself through the smallest space of the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine” she didn’t mean to sound so pissed. “ I mean I’m good, just had a rough sleep”. She just found some random two socks and decided they will be a pair today. She knew that she looked like trash. She didn’t take any effort to look good today, but her mother’s look made her feel even worse. She wore some grey tracksuit she found in the bottom of her draws. No make up. Her hair a mess.

“Are you… sure you’re fine honey. You look sick”

“Mom… I said I had a rough sleep”

“Sorry, sorry Jess… I’m sorry”, Jessica’s mother backed up a bit, her hands out like she was about to charge at her. “Do you want eggs for breakfast?”

“No.. I’ll have… cornflakes or something”

“Okay darling…”

After her mother disappeared, she waited a few minutes until she walked to the kitchen. She was not in the mood to headbutt with her mother about her sleep or something else. Jessica walked down the thin corridor straight face aimed at the kitchen. She flew past the atrium nearly slipping on the tiled floor. Unfazed she continued her campaign to the kitchen.

“Morning Jess”, Her father said, saluting with his grand mug full of coffee. He still had his robe on. “Oh… morning dad”

“You okay?”

“She had a rough night last night”, her mother said.

“Oh… what’s wrong Jessie pie, you usually sleep like a rock”

“Nothing…”, Jessica took the cornflakes box and placed it on the counter. It slammed with a huge thud.

The kitchen fell silent, bar the frying of eggs. Jessica could feel her parents eyes stabbing at her. Her arms tightened. Her dad took a long slurping sip from his mug then puts his mug down with a gentle clink. A deep sigh, from her mother. Are they trying to piss me off. She turns toward the cupboards for a bowl and a spoon. She notices her mother, she’s wearing blue, and purple floral sun-dress with tiny straps. She hasn’t worn that in ages, but lately she has been doing this type of thing. Her hair is pulled back with lazy strands hanging about, which is silly, she ends up wiping them away from her face every time she bends over to cook. She does look younger, slightly, her face still hold years but they seem to sparkle a bit.

Jessica’s father looks old today. The greys in his goatee look more ragged and aged than usual. Maybe work is finally taking its toll of him, or maybe he is finally at that age were he can’t hide his age any more. She remembers the days when his head was full of hair and all the same deep dark black. As she reaches to her bowl, (white china with a singular purple flower in the middle) her hand brushes past her fathers bowl, the same colour black his hair used to be.

She was maybe nine when he bought that bowl. He just bought it on awhim. No plan. They were waiting for some guy. This guy was supposed to buy a used phone her father had and asked to meet by this small shopping centre. Honestly she didn’t need to be there, she haggled her dad to bring her along, she was sold when he announced that he will be back quickly, “In and out quick”. in actuality to buyer was later. As they baked in the car waiting, Jessica getting restless, her father opened the door, “Wanna walk around a bit?” he asked.

They entered the store, a small shop with a little bit of everything witha large emphasis of little. They seemed to be one of almost everything that wasn’t food, and even the food never multiplied above five. It was cramped, with the aisles nearly squeezing on them. The air was old, almost muddy and smoky. The walls were all faded versions of green and peeling white. In the midst of it all, however, her dad saw the dark bowl at the very back of the store, that is to say five steps from the entrance. Jessica was mostly happy to walk around and look around the store then her dad blew past her towards the singular till. She followed hoping he bought a sweet or something, then she saw the bowl and eyed her dad. “What?” he said with a smile on his face.

The golden flakes floated a top a lake of white, she dusted them withsugar and mixed them about. Her spoon clinked and clanked on the rim and floor of her bowl, her left hand swamped in her hair. Her eyes still burned. The eggs smelled glorious, a part of her wanted to ask for eggs but she was too tired to ask. Her mother would cook one in a heart beat, bit no. Her father opposite her on the island with his knife and folk in hand ready to munch. He looks the most comical in moments like that.

“Is that a smile Jessie pie?”, her father asked.

Her mouth snapped back. Her mother giggled. Her father grinned the widest Cheshire Cat smile. Jessica felt hot under her cheeks.

“What some eggs honey, Mom can whip up —”

“No,I’m fine”

“Were you… never mind”, her mother said sitting next to her father, her hands flat on her lap. Sitting all lady-like.

“Was I what?”

“You know…”

“I don’t mom…”

“Woah Jess… mom is just worried… relax honey”

“I just… what to know what is going on”

“Nothing” they both said, laughing afterwards.

“Honey tell Jess what you were thinking”

“What if she gets mad”, Her mother whispered loudly.

“Then it’s not my fault”

“Then I won’t say it”

“Fine. I don’t want to hear it anyway” Jessica slammed her spoon hard, splashing milk.

They sat in silence. Her father polishing his breakfast plater, while her mother whispered little nothings to him. At times he would whisper back something. Jessica wasn’t keen on lip reading nor was she it to sitting with them any more. Though it was cute. She couldn’t help feeling warm, when she glanced up to see her mother so transfixed on her father like the world depended on her keeping total focus on him. Her father looked nearly hypnotised, when she moved left he would move like her mirror.

The milk was so thin she could nearly see the purple flower, she twirled around the last of her flakes not wanting to finish them. Her head was clearing up, maybe it was the food in her system. But she couldn’t fully give it up to food completely. Seeing her parents so unashamed in love with each other is doing some good to her. In the past she would envy them for having moments like this, other times it would remind her of times she shared but today it is different. It’s like osmosis, from one end to the other down a water potential gradient (what a time to think of biology), its infectious. Their love for each other almost feels like they love her too. Though she is eavesdropping.

“I’m going to my room”, Jessica said pushing out her chair with a loud screech.

She ended up in the lounge balled up in a cocoon of covers and blankets, with the TV playing Saturday morning cartoons. She wasn’t watching however, they were mostly just background sounds to her texting. Her head was lighting up. Her head stopped feeling like a dumbbell attached to her neck, but her actual head.

“You look better honey”, Her mother said walking in. She changed the channel to the FOOD Network.

“I’m feeling better mom”, she smiled.

“Rampage Jessica is gone?”

“Rampage Jessica?”

“That’s what your dad called you”, her mother giggled.

“So you were talking about me behind my back?”

“Technically, we were in front of you…” They both laughed. Jessica snorting like a pig and her mother covering her mouth like she was eating something.

“So…”

“So…?” Jessica stuck out her tongue.

“Where you thinking about him?”

“Him?”

“Last night… you know”— Her mother edged closer —“him…” she whispered.

“Mom, that was such a long time ago… why would I ever think of him?”

“I was just wondering. I just thought, ‘why would Jess have a rough sleep if it isn’t for him?’”

“To be honest mom, I was watching YouTube all night”

“That all?”

“That’s all”

A large hand grabs a knife and chops carrots and onions double time. Jessica once thought of cutting carrots like that, it was just a thought. Though the theory of it seems simple. Hold the knife, not at the handle but in the middle. Use the knife tip and anchor it to the cutting board then slide the carrot under the lifted blade. Up. Down. Up. Down. And the carrots are all chopped. But your finger is a similar density to a carrot isn’t it, you could, in theory, cut you own finger with the same motion. Especially when your technique involves fingers going every which way. The chefs roam around their assigned islands like choreographed dances, all white bodies twirling passing each other. The clock ticks down. Jessica’s phone buzzes with more news. A chef shouts at his subordinates, a growling coarse shout straight from the throat. Jessica types away, her mother transfixed at the action. It’s mid-morning. The sun rays streaming in the large windows. The black love seats shine, the leather reflecting small phantoms on the ceiling. Sun like this reveals the age of the carpet, the years of abuse and countless juice spills, patches litter the floor. Dust dance down, their show in the spot light finally. Jessica’s mother automatically moves to the sun — somewhat phototropic she is — stretching out completely kicking her feet over one arm rest, her head on the other.

“What are you doing?” Jessica laughed.

Her mother shrugged.

“You’re looking cute lately”

“Cute?” her mother whipped her head towards her, “What do you mean?”she smiled.

“Like a girl. You look like a girl today…”Jessica giggled, “it’s funny”. Jessica threw off the blankets and stretched out herself. The sun by the tips of her toes. “I mean you’ve been doing it lately”

“Doing what?”

“Looking like a girl. You’ve been looking like a girl for a while now”

“Really? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know… your hair and stuff…”

“This?” her mother pulled one her falling strands.

“Yeah, that…”, Jessica giggled “its super cute”

“Is cute a good thing?”

“Mom… duh. When has cute been anything bad”

“Jess, I’m old now. I’m not cool like you young ones”, she laughed.

“Don’t worry mom. You look cute… innocent even…”

Her mother, took her eyes away for Jessica. Her eyes gazing at the ceiling. “Innocent”, she repeats, half to herself and half to Jessica. Her fingers lightly tap her temples, drumming no real rhythm, song or chant. “Innocent… hmm…” — Her hand rolls back to Jessica — “Come here, I want to tell you something”

“Is there anything wrong?”

“No baby”, Her mother sits up and taps next to her, “It’s a nice story.” Jessica sends a cautious gaze, her mother signals more, “Come”.

Jessica sits the leather squishing under her weight. “Mom I already know how you and dad met”

“Haha… this is something you’ve never heard before…”

I was dating this guy for nine months, lets call him Edward. So I was with this Edward guy long before I met your dad. Actually he was my boyfriend way before I started living by myself, at that time I was living with my sister, your aunt.

Anyway. So this Edward guy was very handsome. Tall, he went to the gym often, he had the deepest smoothest voice I have ever heard, it melted me to the core every time he said “Hi”. He worked in Marketing for this company, we met when our two companies were doing a joint project. It was totally professional during the project, but we did hit it off a couple of times too. He was funny, and had this real atmosphere around him an addictive atmosphere like when you are at a party and you can’t leave. During lunch breaks, he would be at the centre of a giant crowd just listening to him tell some story. People didn’t care if he was making up stuff, they just wanted to hear him speak. I always tried not to be in that, but he would always, without fail, call me out. “Where is Rutendo?” he would say and then I had to sit next to him, it wasn’t too bad though.

At the end of the project he calls me out of nowhere. I didn’t give him my number, so when I heard his voice at the other end I nearly fainted. That voice. That voice. My goodness! So he asks me if I was free that Saturday and I nearly shouted yes.

And that's was how we started dating. We didn’t have a lot of money the two of us. We would have dates at fast food places and try to find the most quiet places for us. We went to movies, sharing a popcorn and drink. Mostly we just walked around window shopping, Edward saying he will buy me all the things I fell in love with when he got money and I would tell him not to worry but secretly I would hope that he was true to his word.

We started getting serious around month three. By that time I had to see him every day, if I even missed one day I would literately feel sick. Your aunt used to tease me when I would feel skin during that time, she would ask if I had seen Edward then ask if I ate anything bad. Even my friends knew how… addicted I was. I remember when he told me that he loved me, I broke down to tears, it was like everything I have ever wanted. He got promoted at that same time so we started going to fancier places for dinner, he bought me all sorts of things — jewellery, clothes, chocolate, shoes. He was spoiling me to be honest. I started going over to his apartment, first on the weekends, then everyday sometimes I would sleep over there….

I remember those days, how I felt like it was yesterday. How even when I wasn’t feeling my best or looking my best I was still good enough for him, like I couldn’t disappoint him even if I tried. I remember trying to actually. I tried forcing him to break up with me, I was super scared of what I was feeling back then I was so young and it felt so serious. I was too scared to break up with him so I wanted him to break up with me…. I was skipping dates, missing calls, cancelling them when I was really desperate.

This went on for weeks until he came to my office one day and we patched things up. I didn’t tell him what was really going on though. I mostly cried and told him I’ll be better, it was so embarrassing. I was in the middle of this reception, with a couch and this guy at the front desk, people were going to lunch and we were in the middle of it, and I was crying in his arms like someone close to me died. The worst, ugliest cry I have ever done in my life. When we were all done my co-workers looked at me so strange, I was still high with emotion so it really affected me that day.

All things weren’t all rosy though. I should have pulled the plug the moment I thought we should break up. I should have told my sister what I really was feeling, she would have figured out all my emotions with me to find the real problems. But I didn’t. I stayed with him for way too long.

See he was a bit too pushy. At first it was him looking for me when we were working on that project, that was nice actually, but then it got more intense as we started dating. He would persuade me to go out with him to bars or something, I told him multiple times that I didn’t like drinking but he would insist. When things got more serious he would ask me to sleep with him, and I said yes but in the back of my head I thought we were moving way too fast. I rationalised myself out of it though, saying “We are in love”, and “This is what lovers do”. When he got that promotion, he pretty much controlled what I would do and when. I even skipped out of work so that I could be with him once, I called sick, and spent the whole day at his apartment. It was the worst, most boring day of my life I tell you.

But worse still was this thing he did. One the very first date we went on, it was fine we were talking and flirting then, click, he went blank. Blank like a wall. Dead serious out of nowhere, and that’s how the date ended. I thought I was a one time thing but then I happened over and over again. Edward wasn’t epileptic, in fact when I wanted to talk about it he would get so defensive like I was accusing him. As the months added up he would straight up shout at me, saying I’m such nag. It was the strangest thing I have ever experienced. One moment we are really connecting, the air and everything felt perfect then, boom, gone. Ice cold like we were strangers. Sometimes he would re-connect, but mostly he didn’t.

I finally got sick of it. I broke up with him during my lunch break, we were in a fancy restaurant and before the menus came around I told him “We need to go our separate ways. I know we have done a lot and we have been together for a while but I think it’s best that we separate…”, I remember my heart was beating out my chest when I said that, I will never forget those words. I will never forget his face when I said what I said, it wasn’t angry or sad or anything really, it was just blank like he just spaced out.

He said “Okay”, like I asked for the salt, so casual. And I left, I walked all the way back to my office and that was that. We were over.

“Does dad know about this?” Jessica whispered.

Her mother smiled, whipping away thin tears from her face “Of coarse, do you think I was hiding these spice details of my life? You dad knows the guy’s real name, I told him everything.”

Jessica opened her mouth, but her mother hugged her enveloping her in a strong embrace. “I love so much”, she said. Jessica could feel tears pouring out of her dripping down her neck. Her mother started kiss the back of her head repeating, “I love you” after every kiss. After a while she stopped. Jessica, statue from everything that happened only notice the strangeness of everything. Like a wave she felt the intensity of her mother’s story, she felt sunken but no tears formed.

“Why… why did you tell me this story?”

“To be totally honest I have been meaning to tell you this story for the longest time but I wasn’t sure when to tell you. I don’t know why I felt like I had to tell you this story baby, I don’t. It was like a ball in my throat, and the only way to take it away was to tell you this. I asked my sister about this and she was surprising okay with this. I even told your dad.” her mother stroked Jessica’s cheek, then kissed the her forehead. Jessica’s eyes closed and for a moment she was floating. Floating above the house, trees and clouds.

Its two in the afternoon. The echo of her mother’s story still ringing in her ears. She was in the lounge long after her mother left to help her father with something. She was still baking in the sun trying to picture her mother with Edward, trying to understand the story, trying to understand her mother. Her mother was now strange, strange like finding a new feature of something familiar. Strange like finding a new scar on your arm. Her mother is more complex now. There was something so scary about that.

Another cooking competition ended. The credits rolling down, the end theme roaring loud. The sun moved, but she was still on the same love seat. She looked at her phone, hundreds of messages poured in, battery nearly dead, more Youtube notifications. She switched it off… she caught a glimpse of her reflection, since when did I look like my mother? Jessica headed straight to her bathroom mirror. She did look like her mother, younger but all her features are there. Her eyes, nose, cheeks. Maybe her mouth is a mix of her parents but the head shape is the same. Jessica pulled back her hair, pulling out lazy strands from her temples.

“Maybe…”

Cover picture credit: alexander-krivitskiy, unsplash

Twitter: @TJohnShumba