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Description
The Kitten
It hit her in the supermarket.  She and Sombrero tensely walked up and down the aisles, regarded the boxes, the prices, the distant and sad people drifting about them.  The reality of it scared her.  The finality of it all.  She wanted to clutch Sombrero’s hand but his eyes had that look they got sometimes: tired terribly, terribly.  And bored.  She held the kitten in her arms tighter.  It moved tinily.
They stopped at the biscuits.  “Do you want any?”
She shrugged.  “I dunno.  Do you?”
“I asked you,” the shopping basket dangled off Sombrero’s thick, bejeweled hand.
“I guess.  I dunno….” she glanced at the other aisles.  “Do you normally get biscuits?”
He looked at her tight.  “Do you?”
She clutched the kitten.  “I dunno.  I don’t really care if we get biscuits or not.”
They kept on walking.
Back with mum they had a shopping list and the aisles had a comforting blankness to them.  Every week they would get this brand of biscuits and this much cereal.  All definite, like the aisles.  But that day the aisles themselves seemed unsure.  A collection of lost and hungry eyes.  She looked to Sombrero.
“Where are we going?”
“I dunno.  We’re shopping.  Wandering around.”
She looked blank.  She felt stupid.
“What else do you do when you’re shopping?”
She looked down at the kitten.  Tiny.  And soft and warm.  It felt limp.  It clung to her, but, its little claws piercing her clothes.  It reminded her of the big cats when they were content or sleepy.  Reminded her of Sombrero sometimes.
“I guess we should get some cat food.”
“I guess,” said Sombrero.
“Kitten food.  There’s special food for kittens.”
Sombrero looked at his feet.  He walks queer, she thought.  All gangly and lop sided.
“How much does cat food cost?”
“Kitten food,” she corrected.
“Yeah, whatever.”
They paused again in front of the bread.  Sombrero popped a loaf off the shelf.  It rested heavy in the dangling basket.
***
She had got the kitten earlier that afternoon at Sombrero’s friend John’s place.  School was on but that didn’t really matter.  John’s family had left for the day but the house still smelt like they were there:  this sweaty smell, a choked smell.
She found the kittens in a box in the hallway.  Knelt down and extended a finger, which one of the kittens pawed.  It was brown with white spots above its eyes.  The mother cat prowled possessively nearby, its eyes sad and far-off.
“Kittens,” she said to herself.
John and Sombrero were just in the kitchen, smoking.  John placed his cigarette in the ash-tray.  “Our cat had a litter,” he said.  “Horny bitch.”
She held the brown and white one up.  It squirmed.  It mewed.  Its little blind eyes blinked and she brought it up to her chest and it lolled in her arms.   She could feel its littleness in the crook of her arms.  It’s tiny heartbeat.
Sombrero and John stood around and talked.  The cigarettes hazed the air and through the windows the sunlight cast shadows on everything.  Crisp and short noontime shadows.
“Should we go to your guy’s place?”  Asked John.
Sombrero shrugged.  “There isn’t much there.”
“There never was.”
“Yeah.  Well…”
John noticed her playing with the kittens.  He stuck another cigarette in his mouth.  Looked out the window.
“We’re trying to get rid of them,” he said.
She looked up.  A sad and hopeful look.
“We can’t look after them all.”
And she looked at Sombrero.  Sombrero looked back.  He was about to say ‘no’ but, no, there was something in her eyes.  Something fat and weak and teary.  Something she wanted to smother.  Something she loved.  She held the little kitten and she looked so soft and somehow frightened.  He thought about the money.  Her eyes sat, jewels in her face.  Her hands delicate, cradling the kitten.  Her mouth open a bit.  He looked at the cat.  It blinked.  He thought about money.  He thought about ‘no’.  Her mouth ever so open and those delicate pearls of teeth.  And the gentle mewing of the cat.  ‘No,’ he thought.  Her fingers knotted tight about the cat’s soft fur.
***
Their house was small.  No more than three rooms perched up in some flats,  But it was theirs.  First it was just Sombrero’s but now it was theirs.
The walls were yellowy-white and the floor was carpeted maroon patterns.  Not much.  A bed.  The refrigerator which hummed.  A stove.  And the little television set which sat like a fat little god.  When they were away the house smelled of paint.  It didn’t smell like them.
She thought about the kitten pacing the floor, curled asleep in a corner.  All happy and comfy and soft.  And she and Sombrero curled up in their bed.  Her awake and him asleep.  Her listening to the breathing of them all so beautiful.  And in her mind she was half-asleep and she reached out and touched the cold wall and she felt it and it was hers.
The smell of cigarette ash lingered over the sink.
Back at her mother’s it smelt like spice.  And in some places still like her father’s cigarette even though he was gone.  It smelled nicer than Sombrero’s.  Like cinnamon.  And she thought of her mother tucking her into bed in that house a few years ago and how warm the sheets were.  And her mother maybe staying awake listening to the hopeful sound of her family’s breathing.  Home.  Home she thought and fingers tightly curled around the kitten.  She thought about her mother maybe placing her hand against the rough beige wall of their house and thinking: mine.  The kitten for a moment squirmed against her grasp.  She held it tightly.  She remembered the big black mother cat prowling.  Looking at the kittens all warm and mewing and hers.  And now one of those kittens resting in her arms and it wasn’t the big mother cat’s anymore it was hers and hers always.  She thought of the sound of the door slamming in her mother’s face.  She remembered Sombrero’s face as she pounded on his door.  How sometimes he felt soft beneath her fingers, how her fingers would knot tight in his thick hair.
***
It hit her in the supermarket.  Up above her the fluorescent light hummed angrily.  She heard the unsure footsteps of her and Sombrero ringing against the unsure aisles.  It was all so alien.  She felt Sombrero looking at her and she turned and found his chocolate eyes.  He lightly kissed her.  Wrapped his arm around her.  His bracelets sprinkled musically with each swaggery step he took.
And she sighed.  The curl of the cat in her arms and that soft look in his eyes.  Sad and distant and soft.  The cat opened its blind eyes for a moment.  Blinked.
***
There was no money and now there’s less with that girl here now.  Fuck.  That little girl.  I remember how she turned up at my doorstep that night all wobbly and weak and her wet cheek and she paused and choked *sob* and muttered something and grasped my shirt and pulled herself closer to me.  How could I say no?  Fuck.  Weak little girl.  It was late and sleep sleep was soon and it was late the TV’s murmuring blue light.  My house.  My TV.  Mine.  And now she’s there and it’s suddenly ours.  And it was mine.  Tiny little girl.  Fucking bitch.  How could I say no, I mean?  How could I say no those big eyes trained on me, how?  And now we have a cat and we have to feed it.  And each thing drops into that fucking basket and that’s one dollar gone two dollars gone.  And her.  So fucking weak.  Holding that fucking mewing cat.
Thinking how her hands tightened around the fabric of my shirt and she pulled herself up close to me and I could breathe her teary breath.  And Yes, I said, yes of course come in and I looked at her tear-damp cheeks.  And I held her.  And warm and soft we lay wrapped in the bed-smelling sheets.  She curled my hair with her fingers.  Little girl.  Weak and little and teary.  I could have been doing other things.  And now she walks beside me and I’m stuck and now it’s not mine it’s ours.  And she walks soft and sad.  We curled in my bed and she cried and I said shh its okay shh and shh and she sniggled and grasped me like she does the cat.  Fucking cat.  I remember the lights coming in through the windows and her face red and shiny from the tears.  I remember how she smiled when lightly she touched the walls and said: our house.  Our house.  Now she’s walking beside me and I think: ours.  It is really a nice word I guess.  And I look at her and pull her towards me and I catch the scent of her hair all summer-like and I kiss her on the forehead and her forehead is warm and I hold her close and the cat miaow fucking cat and I put another thing in the basket and count in my head: one less dollar.  And all around me pass the people all outside of us.  Their faces foreign and limp.  And I wrap my mouth around that word:  Ours.  Fuck.   I wonder how much fucking cat food is.

Description
The Kitten
It hit her in the supermarket.  She and Sombrero tensely walked up and down the aisles, regarded the boxes, the prices, the distant and sad people drifting about them.  The reality of it scared her.  The finality of it all.  She wanted to clutch Sombrero’s hand but his eyes had that look they got sometimes: tired terribly, terribly.  And bored.  She held the kitten in her arms tighter.  It moved tinily.
They stopped at the biscuits.  “Do you want any?”
She shrugged.  “I dunno.  Do you?”
“I asked you,” the shopping basket dangled off Sombrero’s thick, bejeweled hand.
“I guess.  I dunno….” she glanced at the other aisles.  “Do you normally get biscuits?”
He looked at her tight.  “Do you?”
She clutched the kitten.  “I dunno.  I don’t really care if we get biscuits or not.”
They kept on walking.
Back with mum they had a shopping list and the aisles had a comforting blankness to them.  Every week they would get this brand of biscuits and this much cereal.  All definite, like the aisles.  But that day the aisles themselves seemed unsure.  A collection of lost and hungry eyes.  She looked to Sombrero.
“Where are we going?”
“I dunno.  We’re shopping.  Wandering around.”
She looked blank.  She felt stupid.
“What else do you do when you’re shopping?”
She looked down at the kitten.  Tiny.  And soft and warm.  It felt limp.  It clung to her, but, its little claws piercing her clothes.  It reminded her of the big cats when they were content or sleepy.  Reminded her of Sombrero sometimes.
“I guess we should get some cat food.”
“I guess,” said Sombrero.
“Kitten food.  There’s special food for kittens.”
Sombrero looked at his feet.  He walks queer, she thought.  All gangly and lop sided.
“How much does cat food cost?”
“Kitten food,” she corrected.
“Yeah, whatever.”
They paused again in front of the bread.  Sombrero popped a loaf off the shelf.  It rested heavy in the dangling basket.
***
She had got the kitten earlier that afternoon at Sombrero’s friend John’s place.  School was on but that didn’t really matter.  John’s family had left for the day but the house still smelt like they were there:  this sweaty smell, a choked smell.
She found the kittens in a box in the hallway.  Knelt down and extended a finger, which one of the kittens pawed.  It was brown with white spots above its eyes.  The mother cat prowled possessively nearby, its eyes sad and far-off.
“Kittens,” she said to herself.
John and Sombrero were just in the kitchen, smoking.  John placed his cigarette in the ash-tray.  “Our cat had a litter,” he said.  “Horny bitch.”
She held the brown and white one up.  It squirmed.  It mewed.  Its little blind eyes blinked and she brought it up to her chest and it lolled in her arms.   She could feel its littleness in the crook of her arms.  It’s tiny heartbeat.
Sombrero and John stood around and talked.  The cigarettes hazed the air and through the windows the sunlight cast shadows on everything.  Crisp and short noontime shadows.
“Should we go to your guy’s place?”  Asked John.
Sombrero shrugged.  “There isn’t much there.”
“There never was.”
“Yeah.  Well…”
John noticed her playing with the kittens.  He stuck another cigarette in his mouth.  Looked out the window.
“We’re trying to get rid of them,” he said.
She looked up.  A sad and hopeful look.
“We can’t look after them all.”
And she looked at Sombrero.  Sombrero looked back.  He was about to say ‘no’ but, no, there was something in her eyes.  Something fat and weak and teary.  Something she wanted to smother.  Something she loved.  She held the little kitten and she looked so soft and somehow frightened.  He thought about the money.  Her eyes sat, jewels in her face.  Her hands delicate, cradling the kitten.  Her mouth open a bit.  He looked at the cat.  It blinked.  He thought about money.  He thought about ‘no’.  Her mouth ever so open and those delicate pearls of teeth.  And the gentle mewing of the cat.  ‘No,’ he thought.  Her fingers knotted tight about the cat’s soft fur.
***
Their house was small.  No more than three rooms perched up in some flats,  But it was theirs.  First it was just Sombrero’s but now it was theirs.
The walls were yellowy-white and the floor was carpeted maroon patterns.  Not much.  A bed.  The refrigerator which hummed.  A stove.  And the little television set which sat like a fat little god.  When they were away the house smelled of paint.  It didn’t smell like them.
She thought about the kitten pacing the floor, curled asleep in a corner.  All happy and comfy and soft.  And she and Sombrero curled up in their bed.  Her awake and him asleep.  Her listening to the breathing of them all so beautiful.  And in her mind she was half-asleep and she reached out and touched the cold wall and she felt it and it was hers.
The smell of cigarette ash lingered over the sink.
Back at her mother’s it smelt like spice.  And in some places still like her father’s cigarette even though he was gone.  It smelled nicer than Sombrero’s.  Like cinnamon.  And she thought of her mother tucking her into bed in that house a few years ago and how warm the sheets were.  And her mother maybe staying awake listening to the hopeful sound of her family’s breathing.  Home.  Home she thought and fingers tightly curled around the kitten.  She thought about her mother maybe placing her hand against the rough beige wall of their house and thinking: mine.  The kitten for a moment squirmed against her grasp.  She held it tightly.  She remembered the big black mother cat prowling.  Looking at the kittens all warm and mewing and hers.  And now one of those kittens resting in her arms and it wasn’t the big mother cat’s anymore it was hers and hers always.  She thought of the sound of the door slamming in her mother’s face.  She remembered Sombrero’s face as she pounded on his door.  How sometimes he felt soft beneath her fingers, how her fingers would knot tight in his thick hair.
***
It hit her in the supermarket.  Up above her the fluorescent light hummed angrily.  She heard the unsure footsteps of her and Sombrero ringing against the unsure aisles.  It was all so alien.  She felt Sombrero looking at her and she turned and found his chocolate eyes.  He lightly kissed her.  Wrapped his arm around her.  His bracelets sprinkled musically with each swaggery step he took.
And she sighed.  The curl of the cat in her arms and that soft look in his eyes.  Sad and distant and soft.  The cat opened its blind eyes for a moment.  Blinked.
***
There was no money and now there’s less with that girl here now.  Fuck.  That little girl.  I remember how she turned up at my doorstep that night all wobbly and weak and her wet cheek and she paused and choked *sob* and muttered something and grasped my shirt and pulled herself closer to me.  How could I say no?  Fuck.  Weak little girl.  It was late and sleep sleep was soon and it was late the TV’s murmuring blue light.  My house.  My TV.  Mine.  And now she’s there and it’s suddenly ours.  And it was mine.  Tiny little girl.  Fucking bitch.  How could I say no, I mean?  How could I say no those big eyes trained on me, how?  And now we have a cat and we have to feed it.  And each thing drops into that fucking basket and that’s one dollar gone two dollars gone.  And her.  So fucking weak.  Holding that fucking mewing cat.
Thinking how her hands tightened around the fabric of my shirt and she pulled herself up close to me and I could breathe her teary breath.  And Yes, I said, yes of course come in and I looked at her tear-damp cheeks.  And I held her.  And warm and soft we lay wrapped in the bed-smelling sheets.  She curled my hair with her fingers.  Little girl.  Weak and little and teary.  I could have been doing other things.  And now she walks beside me and I’m stuck and now it’s not mine it’s ours.  And she walks soft and sad.  We curled in my bed and she cried and I said shh its okay shh and shh and she sniggled and grasped me like she does the cat.  Fucking cat.  I remember the lights coming in through the windows and her face red and shiny from the tears.  I remember how she smiled when lightly she touched the walls and said: our house.  Our house.  Now she’s walking beside me and I think: ours.  It is really a nice word I guess.  And I look at her and pull her towards me and I catch the scent of her hair all summer-like and I kiss her on the forehead and her forehead is warm and I hold her close and the cat miaow fucking cat and I put another thing in the basket and count in my head: one less dollar.  And all around me pass the people all outside of us.  Their faces foreign and limp.  And I wrap my mouth around that word:  Ours.  Fuck.   I wonder how much fucking cat food is.