central lawn, with a little pond and trails. I can see how it would be stray cat heaven. “I… are you sure? Your girlfriend won’t mind?”
He snorts so loud he has to stop walking for fear of tripping. “Yeah, no girlfriend, but smooth… real smooth.”
I blush, glad he’s still got his back to me. (I told you I suck at this.) “Boyfriend?” I add, just… covering all my bases.
“No boyfriend either, Grace.” He leads me to his porch, tiny but quaint with a table for two and an adorable orange tabby sitting on one of the chairs.
“Oh. My. God,” I gush, inching closer. “She’s. A. Dorable.”
Fanta perks up, hearing the crinkle of the bag, but wary, like stray cats are. She’s got a rich orange coat, large brown eyes and a white strip under her mouth and along her belly. She’s pretty, but bedraggled.
“I see why you called her Fanta,” I say, turning to him. He’s close to me, so close and tall I have to kind of look up to see him grinning.
“You feed her,” he says, leaning against the patio wall. “She won’t eat when I’m around.”
“No?” I ask, reaching for one of the cans and handing him the leftovers in the bag.
“Naw, she’s pretty jumpy.”
I take my time, the fiddle and bagpipe playing in the distance, the holiday in the air, Toby watching my every move.
I kneel on his deck, opening the can. Fanta perks up, licking her lips, long white whiskers quivering as she kneads her paws into the maroon seat cushion of her chair.
I don’t make a noise. I’ve never been a pet person, never owned one, never wanted to, but she’s so thin and hungry and shabby, how can you not love her?
The cat food is smelly, raw and brown, but she can’t resist. Fanta leaps down from the chair and, like a tiger in the wild, stalks low and slow, shoulders hunched, tongue partly out.
Gently, so as not to frighten her, I inch the can forward. She pauses each time, but then keeps going, because each time the can is closer to her. Finally it’s closer to her than it is to me and she leans down, tasting it, before going to town.
Shamelessly she eats and I reach for a second can.
Toby touches my hand, a soft spark rippling along my skin. “One is plenty,” he says, helping me stand. “I tried twice one night and, well… it wasn’t pretty.”
“Thanks,” I say, “for helping me up.” He nods and smiles.
“Thanks for the home delivery.”
“Oh, well, I mean, like I said…” I blather, but he knows better. And it makes me happy, somehow, that he knows better. That he’s not just another dopey boy who would fall for my scam.
“It’s okay,” he says, smirking. “Why do you think I pass two other convenience stores to go to yours every night?”
“Really?”
“And their cat food’s cheaper,” he adds.
“Really?” I chuff, punching him playfully on the arm. It’s hard, and tense. “Then maybe you should start going to one of them instead.”
He chuckles. “If I did,” he asks, “would you miss me?” And there’s something in his voice, so honest and worried, I can’t lie.
“Yes,” I say and, no sooner is the word from my mouth then he leans down to kiss me. Softly, gently, no more than a peck, but it hits its mark and it’s been so long that I cling to the sleeves of his powder blue pullover so that he pulls me along with him as our lips part.
“Pinch me,” I gush, eyes half-lidded so that his blushing face is blurry.
“What?” he murmurs as my hands untangle from the folds I’ve made of his sleeves.
“I just… is this really happening?”
“I think so,” he says, leaning down to kiss me once more. “Yes, definitely.”
I look back at him, more clearly now, and notice that… he’s all in blue. Navy track pants, light blue pullover, soft blue knit cap slung over his brown curls.
I pinch him, hard, on the arm.
“Hey,” he says, rubbing it instinctively. “What’s that for? I told you this was real!”
“You’re not wearing any green,” I remind him.
“So?” he asks, playfully, only just now spotting the little leprechaun on my shirt, the perky lime green of my jacket.
“Oh… is that tonight?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, didn’t you wonder why there are bagpipes in the air?”
He smiles, taking me in his arms. “Honestly, Grace, for the last week, the only sound I’ve cared about is the bell dinging over my head every night when I walk into the Minute Mart and see you there, behind the counter.”
I blink up at him, and pinch him once more. “Ow,” he sighs, drawing me closer so that our bodies fit like two pieces of a broken puzzle. “What was that one for?”
“I must be dreaming,” I sigh, laying my head against his chest. “Only in my dreams do guys talk that way.”
He grunts, chin on my head, and slowly wraps me in his arms. “Then you’re hanging around the wrong guys, Grace.”
I smile and listen to his heart pound rapidly against his chest. Then I shift positions a little so we can both watch Fanta chow down. She’s almost finished with the Lucky Cat, chasing the mostly empty tin can around the porch until it comes to rest against the small rattan table leg and she can stay put.
“Lucky cat,” I chuckle, staring at the cat food can… and the cat.
He smiles down at me, softly, with a voice to match. “Lucky guy,” he mumbles, safe in my arms.
Or am I safe in his? I think it’s safe to say that, on this St. Patrick’s Day, all three of us are lucky.
Each in his or her own way…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Seasons of Snowflake, https://www.seasonsofsnowflake.com,
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