Page 16 of Brain Damage

I try to smile as I join Clark at the window. The view was what sold me on this apartment—I love looking at the expanse of green right outside my window. No matter what kind of lousy day I’m having, it always cheers me up. “Yeah, I love it.”

He’s close enough to nudge my shoulder with his. “Sort of romantic.”

I feel a flush rise in my pale cheeks. I know I must be blushing, and I’m sure he can tell. “Yeah, sort of.”

A loud meow from behind us interrupts the moment and whatever was about to happen. We turn around, and Kitty is perched on the floor behind us, as if waiting to be introduced. Clark cocks his head at her.

“This is your cat?” he asks.

No, she’s a stray that wandered in through the back door.

I nod. “Her name is Kitty.”

Clark grins. “Black cats are bad luck, you know.”

“So they say…”

I actually hate that superstition. Down at the shelter, they told me that black cats have the hardest time getting adopted because nobody wants the bad luck.

“She’s cute.” Clark bends down and attempts to pet her, but she backs away and hisses at him. So much for wanting to be introduced. “What breed is she?”

I shrug. “She’s a cat.”

“The breeder didn’t tell you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I didn’t get her from a breeder,” I explain. “I rescued her from a shelter.”

Clark stares at me, aghast. “Are you serious, Charlotte? You got her off the street? She could have fleas! Or be pregnant!”

“She doesn’t have fleas,” I say defensively, as Kitty nuzzles against my bare calf. “They checked her out at the shelter. And she’s been fixed.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say,” Clark snorts.

“Are you suggesting they lied to me?”

He shrugs. “You get what you pay for.”

“Well, I’m not returning her,” I say. Clark is seeming less and less attractive by the minute. As if some snooty cat from a breeder would be better than my Kitty. What an ass. No wonder he’s still single. “I’ve had her two years and she’s been checked out by the vet. She’s fine.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Clark concedes. He crouches down again to make another attempt to pet Kitty. This time he nearly gets his hand on her black fur before she hisses again and scratches at his hand.

Clark jumps up, clutching his hand, then lets loose with a string of profanity. I am totally shocked. In the two years I’ve had Kitty, she’s never once scratched anyone. Even when one of my coworkers brought her two-year-old son over, who tried to ride Kitty like a horse.

“You didn’t have her declawed?” Clark asks accusingly.

“It’s inhumane to declaw a cat,” I say.

Clark shoves his hand in my face, which is actually bleeding not insignificantly. “Look what she did! You think that’s humane?”

Well, this date isn’t exactly getting off on the right foot.

I offer to disinfect and bandage Clark’s hand, but he waves me away angrily, cleaning it off in my bathroom with soap and water. After several minutes, Clark emerges from the bathroom and says, “Let’s go.”

Is he kidding me? Does he really think I’m going to spend an evening with him after he just demanded that I declaw my cat?

“Actually,” I say, “I just developed a headache. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go out.”

He laughs like I’m making a joke. “Come on. Our reservation is in fifteen minutes.”