True to her word, Gwen wakes me up fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to be at Cat’s. I run my fingers through my hair and find I don’t need to do much more than that—it looks good. I look good. My eyes are rapidly dilating as I stare at myself in the darkness of the bathroom. I curl my lashes, brush my brows, brush my teeth, and give Gwen a hug before leaving with my keys and nothing else.
Nothing else but a ball of emotions, of course. Anxiety and anticipation both swirl around inside of me like rogue pinballs, twisting up my insides as I walk to the lobby and get in an elevator, press the button for the third floor, ride the elevator, get off the elevator, make my way to the skywalk, and get a great view of exactly how much someone could have seen when I snuck out to have outside cat time—it’s not a lot, but it’s enough that anyone could have seen my full strip show and subsequent transformation if they were paying attention.
I doubt anyone saw me, or else they surely would have run down to the dumpsters, right?
Right.
…gosh, that outside adventure was a mess. I looked for cameras but didn’t think about the skywalk? It is at an angle where someone needs to be actively looking down, but still. I should have been more careful.
It’s fine.
I’m probably just fixating on it so I don’t have to think about walking across the skywalk, finding which hall to go down, going down that hall, counting the room numbers, finding Cat’s, standing outside of it awkwardly for a minute, raising my hand to knock, not knocking, trying to remember what I was thinking about previously that was distracting me from this, failing. Am I sweating too much? It is pretty hot in here, though it could literally just be me and my new body temp. Should I have brought something? Wine?
Can I even drink things like alcohol anymore?
Craft beer… I doubt I’d enjoy it. No wine, that’s for sure. Spirits…
It’s weirdly easy to determine what I will and will not like. It’s like eating a food as a kid and deciding it tastes bad and you don’t want it ever again—it’s that feeling, but instinctual instead of learned. I don’t need to try whiskey to know I’ll dislike it now that my taste buds have rearranged themselves. Or tequila, or gin, or rum… or… or…
…
Nothing? Not even vodka or a cream liqueur? Those have milk and cream in them! Oh, shit, I should try cream—no! Ignore that! I can’t drink anymore!
Goddamn it.
I stuff my emotions about everything—being a cat, alcohol, Cat—down and knock. Alcohol’s not good for you anyway. In fact, I’m glad I can’t drink it anymore.
…
Yeah, can’t lie to myself about that one. I guess I’m sober now. Well, except for weed. And I guess if the smoothie incident is anything to go by, I can have things I dislike… they just suck, and they suck enough that it isn’t worth forcing myself to eat or drink anything I don’t enjoy.
Yay. Sobriety.
The door opens. My anxiety melts away.
A truly wonderful smell greets me alongside Cat. I barely get a chance to look at her before she’s on me.
“Alice!” Cat exclaims excitedly, pulling me into a hug that I, weirdly, don’t try to escape from, despite her being a new person.
It’s nice. I lean into it.
I lean into it a little too much. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it’s enough that I’ve made it awkward because Cat is trying to disentangle herself from me.
“Sorry!” I blurt out. “I spaced out for a second.”
Fortunately, she doesn’t seem fazed. “All good—I forgot about your contacts and was shocked for a bit at the start there anyway.”
Right. My “contacts”.
I sniff the air a few times. “That smells delicious,” I say, trying to change the topic. And it does smell good. It does. It really does.
My dumb ass just forgot that chicken is not something usually served by itself, because I can smell things that aren’t chicken.
She’s going to think I have an eating disorder for sure.
“Thanks! Oh! You should come in, sorry. I’m just finishing up, you’re right on time.”
I nod and step inside, sliding out of my slides and following her into the kitchen. I set my keys down on the counter and take a look at what she’s got going on.
At least, I try to. I get a glimpse of a covered pot on the stove and not much else because Cat is shooing me into the living room. “You go relax, I’ll bring it out when it’s done.”
Why does my stupid nose like the smell of things I can’t have? It’s… it’s a little cruel, honestly. I’m not as upset about it as I am about not being able to enjoy something that I’m sure Cat put a lot of time and effort into, but still. Why?
What am I going to do? Pick through whatever she’s made—though I’m confident I know already—for the pieces of chicken? Tell her that her chicken would be better (for me) with no seasoning at all? Okay, maybe a little salt, but definitely no pepper.
Shit, when did that change?
Fuck. Fuck, just sit down and breathe, that’s all I need to do. Anxiety is not going to ruin this for me.
I’m not going to ruin this for her.
Her dorm only has one couch, but it’s bigger than the normal ones. There’s a coffee table in front of it with a computer mouse on top, along with napkins and forks and a white sauce that I’m guessing she made from scratch. Two glasses of water sit on either side, and soft, plush blankets adorn the couch. The whole setup is facing a TV that displays the front page of a pirating website. Does she want me to pick?
“Do you want me to pick?” I call out to her, trying very hard not to turn around as I take a seat on the couch. This is all so nice, and I’m about to wreck it unless I can force my face to look happy as I eat. Or, I tell her the truth about me and she spends a bunch of time focusing on that instead of enjoying our date.
Why did I agree to this? I can barely even eat with a fork anymore—I still can, sure, but it feels so wrong. What was I thinking?
“I’d suggest something with horror for spooky season,” she replies, and I hear the click of the stove shutting off, the sliding of the pot across its surface, her bare feet padding across the vinyl flooring, and I shouldn’t be hearing any of this, should I? “Have you seen Let the Right One In?”
“Heard of it,” I reply, trying not to choke on my words as anxiety and that fucking tinnitus builds within me. I will not turn into a cat right now unless I want to, and while I do want to, I’m afraid of upsetting Cat even more. Turning into a cat would fix that as well, but I’m aware enough that I know it wouldn’t be the right decision if my goal is making Cat feel appreciated. “I’m down.”
“Yay!” she chirps. I hear scraping, scooping, food moving around inside the pot and then being dished out on plates. Cupboards opening, lids opening, lids closing, cupboards closing. “I’m running all of it from my laptop—it’s behind the TV. Just go type it in and I’ll bring dinner.”
I do just that, though without much conscious thought behind my actions. The movie is on screen, and I’m back on the couch. I’m not sure where the time went. I think I’m trying not to think because if I do think I’ll think about things I don’t want to think about, like upsetting Cat, and oh, there I go anyways, thinking about something I don’t want to think about.
I can’t fuck this up.
I should text Gwen, ask her to call me, bail me out.
It would ruin something Cat has put a lot of time into. It might hurt her, even, but that’s surely better than rejecting her food, right? Or explaining what my deal is?
“Tah-dah!” a voice says from beside me, setting down a plate of—yup, I knew it—chicken biryani on the coffee table. I can barely look at it because I’m swallowing down a hiss and failing to completely suppress my flinch at the sudden appearance of Cat and the food.
“I’m sorry!” she blurts. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Y-You’re g-good,” I stutter out. “Just… spacing out again.”
“Ah, shit, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you, promise. Here,” she says, setting down another plate of food; it looks great—she even garnished it with green onions. She walks to the other side of the couch and sits down beside me, placing her hand on my shoulder.
I shrug it off. I need to deal with this on my own.
“I’ll be fine, I just need to breathe for a sec—f-food looks amazing.”
“Ah, thanks,” she says sheepishly and, really, Cat has trouble taking compliments? Her, of all people? “I never asked if you were allergic to anything, or what you might want other than chicken, so… yeah. I hope it’s good. You’re not allergic to anything, right? I was gonna text to ask but forgot and just sort of ended up cooking and then it was too late to text because I couldn’t restart everything. My backup plan was to order pizza but for some reason I thought that might be too much, even though we literally met only yesterday but like I get really good vibes from you so it’s fine and… agh! Sorry, sorry, I’m talking too much.”
No, you absolutely aren’t.
Some tension eases in me, and I laugh, pressing myself closer against her. She’s very warm, and any part of me touching her is bound to get a little sweaty, but it’s okay—I’m content with it. She responds by hesitantly resting her head against mine, and I breathe out a sigh of relief as more tension slides away.
“Nah, not allergic to anything,” I say, extricating myself from her warmth. I don’t want to, but the longer I leave the food situation unaddressed, the worse my anxiety is going to get. I could just run out of the room and pretend I never met Cat, block her number and move on, but she has this energy to her that makes me want to protect her. Also, I’d never do anything like that to anyone. The source of this chapter is novelping . com.
“Buuut…” I drawl, and my voice is shaky. I swallow, try to steady it. “But I do have a… I have very particular dietary requirements.” It’s not a lie. “And I forgot I did—er, I mean, I forgot to tell you.” Her face is falling a little. Fuck, fuck. “No, no!” I quickly get out, raising my arms in faux surrender. “Not like that—it does look great, I promise, I just… I can only eat the, um… chicken…”
Her face stops falling and morphs into an incredulous look instead.
“You can only eat… the chicken,” she states.
Yeah. Oh, shit. Talk, Alice. “Yeah.”
She gives me this questioning look that makes me squirm, and I try to focus on any other part of her instead—she’s wearing a black tank top and baggy jeans, so I at least got the dress code right. I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup, and her hazel eyes—stop making eye contact—are searching mine for something—what, exactly, I cannot say. I look away again. Her hands are on her lap and, while she isn’t tense, she isn’t relaxed, either.
“Well… I wish you would have said something,” she says disappointedly. I can tell she wants to ask more about my “diet”, but she restrains herself. “I hate wasting food.”
“You don’t need to waste it—I can pick the chicken out and, um… you can have the rest for, uh, leftovers? If that’s okay?”
She frowns. “Like… I guess it is. Sorry, I know I’m being kind of bitchy, but—”
“You’re not,” I assure her. It’s sort of a lie, but she deserves to be at least a little upset, and she isn’t hurting my feelings, so it’s okay. “It’s my fault. Do you still wanna watch the movie?”
She takes a second to think about it, and then she nods eagerly, all her negative energy dissipating and the atmosphere returning to the cozy date vibe she had going on before I nearly fucked everything up. Weirdly enough, comforting her released all of my own tension—seriously, all of it.
Cat helps me pick out the chicken on my plate and scrapes the de-chickened biryani back into the pot. What I’m left with isn’t much in the way of food, but I assure her it’s more than enough for me. It isn’t, but there’s no way I’m digging through the rest of her chicken biryani and leaving her with only rice.
We head back to the couch, sit a little further apart than I would like, and she uses the mouse to press play while I dig in.
The chicken is still really good on its own, even if it would be better without all the seasoning on it.
Cooking means a lot to me. Good food means a lot to me. Losing my ability to properly enjoy the latter (even if chicken and tuna and milk have tasted better than anything I’ve ever had) has me feeling pretty sad, even with the distraction that is Cat and the time she put into making this the nicest first date I’ve ever been on. Also definitely the most lesbian first date I’ve ever been on, if how fast we’re moving is any metric to go by. Is that weird? A date night in someone’s place after you’ve only talked to them twice?
Ugh.
I can still cook, sure, but how can I ever cook for anyone else if I want to gag every time I taste-test whatever it is I’m making? How long will it be before I forget what “normal” food is supposed to taste like? Months? Years?
I’m spiralling, and I don’t need to. The food is good. The company is good. The move is… something I haven’t paid much attention to yet, but I’m getting there, I’m relaxing. I feel cared for in a way I don’t think I’ve ever really felt before.
I take another bite and notice Cat staring at me with wide eyes.
…sigh, what now?
Oh. I’m eating with my hands.
“Sorry,” I say after swallowing. I towel my fingers off on the provided napkin. The movie plays in the background, forgotten.
She’s still staring at me.
“Cat?” I try.
“Your eyes are really big right now.”
Oops.
That’s… not surprising, though. I was enjoying food and watching a movie in the dark. It’s like the perfect atmosphere for a cat’s eyes to dilate in.
Wait, when did she turn the lights off?
Doesn’t matter. How do I explain this?
“Uh… it’s normal?”
Am I seriously that stupid?
Yes, yes I am precisely that stupid.
“That’s… contacts don’t—your… your p-pupils don’t get that big…”
Shit.
To be quite honest, if I think about it, I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner. There’s no way my pupils haven’t been shifting in size all day. Did the contact lens excuse really work that well?
Or are people just ignorant to things they can’t easily explain?
Does it matter?
“Cat—I can explain,” I say quietly, not meeting her eyes. I think I feel ashamed.
And then she freezes, and I assume the lizard part of her brain has kicked into action and is recognizing that the thing in front of her is not human. I’m not a thing, obviously, but I’m also… I’m also…
Fuck.
I’m… not really human anymore, am I? Nor am I currently a cat. I’m… something between the two, when I’m not a cat.
“What are you?” she whispers, and it is so quiet that I’m not sure I would have heard it if I was still human.
I don’t like the phrasing of the question, but I stay resolute. I refuse to get angry at her. She doesn’t deserve it. She deserves openness and honesty and the truth and I should have just told her from the start, even if she wouldn’t have believed me. I could have explained it. This could have gone so much better.
“That’s a little complicated right now, but I think I’m turning into a cat.”
Silence.
…more silence.
…even more silence.
…
Silence is boring.
Silence is, perhaps, also necessary.
I stay quiet.
I stay quiet for another thirty seconds while whatever’s happening inside Cat’s head continues to happen.
And then she snaps back to reality.
“Are you going to eat me?”
“What?! No!” I yelp, utterly unprepared for such a question.
“You’re not a… a werecat, or something? Or a bakeneko?” This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“I don’t know what that is, but probably not? I-I really don’t know! You—you actually fed me, y’know? The lemon chicken? Behind the dumpsters the other day. That… that was me. I was a cat then, but I swear I don’t know what I actually am, or if there’s a term for it. I’m not going to freaking eat you though.”
But I might lick your blood if you’re bleeding.
…
…what.
…
Okay, tabling that thought for later. Or never. Never sounds good, too.
Cat hasn’t moved from her spot on the couch—neither have I. The movie is still playing, the scene now focusing on two old men smoking in a diner. I don’t pay it any more attention than that, and it’s easy to tune out the sound of the movie playing entirely.
“So… um…”
More silence.
“Cat?”
“I think I want you to leave.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s fair.
Not wanting to spook her, I nod. “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”
Disappointment swells in me. It’s a goddamn hurricane of all the bad emotions. Abandonment, even though she did nothing wrong—this is my fault. Sadness. Despair. Other synonyms for sadness and despair and who fucking cares, I blew it, of course I did.
“Wait,” she says while, in the same moment, I grab my keys off the counter. “I just wanted to, um, see if you would go, or, uh, if you were gonna hurt me or something…”
Her voice is so small, so shy, so ashamed.
She doesn’t have to be. Testing people is dumb, but in this situation, she gets a pass.
I stay where I am, but I turn and ask her, “What were you going to do if I didn’t leave?”
She pulls a folding knife out of her side of the couch.
I give her a Look.
“It’s only there in case something happens, okay?” she explains, and my heart breaks a little. What happened to her that she feels she needs to have a knife stashed? Is she somehow more traumatized than me?
“Okay…?” she repeats.
Right. I need to answer when people talk to me. “Okay,” I say simply. “Do you… still want me to go?”
She shakes her head.
Everything feels so delicate. I feel like, if I dropped my keys, or sneezed, she’d kick me out and I’d never see her again. She would move to a different province, or, hell, maybe a different country. She’d call the cops on me, get me institutionalized or sent to a zoo or a shady government lab or whatever the fuck would actually happen to someone like me in the real world.
“Do you want me to sit back down?”
She shakes her head.
“I’ll stay here, then.”
She nods. After a minute, her mouth hangs open for a few moments before closing and opening again, and she says, oh-so quietly, “Was that really you? You… oh my god, you were guarding your own bag… Can you… turn into a cat right now?”
Oh, you better fucking believe I can.
I am barely holding the transformation back.
“I… can, but I’d like to talk first? I can prove it was me. Ask me anything about that day.”
Another head shake. “No, no… I—I believe you,” she sighs. “It… makes sense.”
It does what now?
I ask the question aloud when I remember I need to speak to use words.
“It does,” she affirms. “I need to get my thoughts together, but yes, it absolutely does. You can… um… you can come sit. If you want.”
Slowly, hesitantly, I set my keys down and wander back over to the couch. I sit as far from Cat as I can, and she seems to appreciate it.
She even sets the knife down. I’m curious about it, and it’s definitely a conversation to have later if this ends up not exploding spectacularly, but until then, my attention is for Cat and Cat alone. Weirdly enough, I don’t feel unsafe around her, even after the knife. I feel… shaky, exposed, somewhat vulnerable—but I don’t feel unsafe.
“Okay,” she says after a while, exhaling a heady breath. “I guess, with the hissing in the lecture hall, and your eyes, I got cat vibes, even if I didn’t really pick up on ‘em. Like… I’m not a people person usually…” she explains, and it sounds a bit sad. “I’d rather be around animals. I grew up on a ranch with so many different kinds of animals and, well, story for another time, but the point is, I really like animals. I… I just want to protect them and beat the shit out of anyone who hurts them? And… the thing I said you might find weird, well… I wanted to, um… ahhhh, shit. It is weird. No judging me! Promise!”
“I promise,” I promise her.
“Okay, okay, I just… I… AHH! I wanted to protect you and it made no sense at all and now it does because you’re part cat and I’m just… holy shit, this is a lot, you know?” she blurts out all at once.
A grin blooms on my face. This… isn’t going as poorly as it could have. “Personally, I find the term ‘part cat’ to be rather offensive.”
“Are you seriously making a joke out of this right now?” she asks, but I can hear the humour in her voice.
“Uh, yeah? It’s like, one of my best avoidance strategies.” Alongside turning into a cat, but I can mention that later. “Also, I don’t know what else to do. This is a fuckin’ wild first date and I feel like I’d be a bad person if I didn’t let you dictate what happens next.”
“That’s… shiiiiiiit, this is a lot. I… I have questions. And I want to talk to you about it. But I’m still freaking out a bit so can we just restart the movie and do all that after?”
“Sure. You should eat your food, though. It really does look good.”
“Wait, is this why you can only eat the chicken?”
I nod and hope none of the complicated feelings I’ve discovered I have when it comes to food make their way onto my face.
“All righty then. One last question?”
“Shoot,” I tell her.
“You really don’t know what you are?”
I shake my head. I don’t. I wish I knew anything about what’s happening to me, but I don’t, and I’m trying to accept that I might not ever know.
Do I need to know what I am, though? I never cared about it when I was human, so… why should I start caring now?
Huh.
“I’m just me. I’m Alice,” I settle on. “And sometimes, I turn into a cat.”