"Ugh... what kind of 'grownup' doesn't own a coffeemaker?" I groused as I struggled out of John's low platform bed. Finally upright, I looked out the open bedroom window at the sunny, Spring morning. John's inadequate kitchen hadn't occurred to me, nor had his eighteen-inches-off-the-ground mattress, when I agreed to stay at his apartment to cat and plant-sit while he was out of town for yet another work trip. I decided that for his birthday, I would correct that appliance deficiency, regardless of whether he himself drank coffee.
I deliberated corralling my D-cups into a bra before leaving for the coffee shop but nixed that idea. Instead, I threw on one of John's hoodies over the thin grey t-shirt that I had slept in and pulled on a pair of pink running shorts over my teal thong. Slipping sneakers onto my bare feet, I completed my midweek morning work-from-home outfit.
Before I left, I stopped at the kitchen sink and filled the watering can, then crossed to John's windowsill menagerie of snake and spider plants. As I watered his plants, Cinnamon, John's orange long-haired cat lunged from beneath a bookcase and attacked my bare ankle, then scurried to the other room. I dropped the can in surprise, cursing the animal as water pooled across the hardwood.
"Dammit, Cinnamon! Ugh, I wish John had a fish instead..." I muttered as I crawled on my hands and knees, mopping up the spill. Standing, I propped my foot on a chair and checked my scratches for bleeding. Finding no blood, I tossed the wet rag into the sink, then picked the wedgie that had intruded into my crack during my crawling. I straightened my shorts, grabbed John's key and my wallet, then headed for the coffee shop. Behind me, the apartment door thumped loudly in its old wooden frame.
Returning twenty minutes later, I huffed as I ascended the final flight of stairs to John's fourth-floor walkup. In one hand I carefully cradled a large latte; the other clutched a paper bag containing a bagel. I mounted the last step, then turned toward John's apartment. In my alarm, the bag dropped to the floor; I barely recovered in time to save my coffee.
The door to the apartment hung ajar. The last thing John had told me before he left was a reminder that the latch on his front door sometimes jammed behind the faceplate. In fact, many doors in his apartment were prone to drifting open due to age and swelling of the wood, especially with the windows opened. Last night I had nearly brained myself on an unexpectedly open closet door walking to the bathroom in the dark. John stressed to make certain the lock caught each time I shut the front door - and jiggle the knob to doublecheck - otherwise the door could unlatch. He'd joked about a neighbor walking in while I was changing, but I understood that his real concern was the escape-minded cat.
I dashed inside, whispering "Cinnamon... Cinnamon!" begging the cat to appear as I fruitlessly searched the rooms. Back out in the hallway, I rushed from one end of the floor to the other, checking the trash and laundry rooms, but found nothing. I nervously chewed the inside of my cheek as I returned to the apartment, recalling with dismay that the lobby doors were propped open for a tenant's move.
Sipping coffee as I sat down on the couch, I racked my brain for ideas. A text flashed on my phone screen; John, "Touring a supplier warehouse this afternoon. How are you and Cinnamon getting along <3?" I turned the phone facedown, a wave of nauseating guilt surged in my fog of panic.
"Flyers..." I timidly suggested aloud in the empty, cat-less apartment. I opened my laptop and started a new document. "LOST CAT" I typed in large, bold letters across the top line. I pulled and cropped a picture of the cat off John's social media and pasted it in the middle of the page above its name, then added John's address and my cell number beneath. I stared at the screen a moment longer, then added in big, block letters at the bottom "REWARD!".
I hastily hit "Print" and drained John's color cartridge with twenty copies. I hung flyers in the stairwell, the lobby, and in the building's office. Outside the building, I affixed sheets to street poles and ducked into nearby stores asking cashiers to hang them. Each store I went into readily agreed, except for one bodega owner who made me buy something before he would post the sign. "Bulletin board is for customers only!" The man chided. I bought a can of soda and chugged it while standing at the counter, then shoved the flyer into his hands and marched off indignantly.
Sweat was glistening on my brow and soaking through the sweatshirt by the time I reclimbed the stairs and returned to the apartment. I checked my phone as I entered, firmly shutting the door and jimmying the knob to ensure the latch caught. The only message on the screen was John's from earlier.
Clawing free of the hoodie as I slumped back on the couch, I tossed the damp sweatshirt into a nearby chair, then kicked away my shoes as I drank the last of my coffee. "He'll turn up..." I reassured myself, unconvincingly. "He can't have gone far... someone will find him. And he's got tags on his collar..."
I wiped a trickle of sweat from my jaw, then noticed the soggy armpits of my tee. "Guh!" I recoiled and whipped off the soiled shirt without contemplating the large, open windows in the sun-filled living room. "Eep!" I shrieked self-consciously, then hurried, barefoot and topless, through John's apartment to the bedroom, hoping no one in the building across the street was snooping on me and my naked, bopping rack. I found a thin yellow tank top in my overnight bag, ducked my arms and boobs into the meager singlet, then returned to the couch.
After failing to get any work done and finding myself unable to eat my cold bagel, I turned on the TV but couldn't focus and frustratedly switched off the set. As time passed, I realized that my gloom went beyond the prospect of hurting John; I was genuinely upset that the cat (which had always hated me) was lost.
I pulled out my laptop again, pulling up the Humane Society page to see if Cinnamon had been taken to the shelter. Finding nothing there, I checked Craigslist but found no mention of a fat, unpleasant orange cat. Outside the window, clouds scuttled across the sky, solidifying into a level grey. The wind picked up and the temperature in the apartment cooled noticeably. I considered crawling back into John's hoodie but first carried my breakfast trash to the bin in the kitchen.
As I dumped my empty coffee cup and uneaten bagel in the trash can, I jumped at a loud knock on the front door. I hurried through the apartment as quickly as my bare feet would take me. Putting my eye to the peephole, two black men filled the field of vision, one of whom clung cautiously to a writhing, furious looking Cinnamon. I flung open the door in my excitement; I had never imagined how happy I would be to see John's dreadful cat.
"Ohmygodthankyou!!" I hollered excitedly, rushing to grab the animal from the stranger's arms. My bra-less tits bobbled merrily as I dove through the doorway. "MrrrOWlllrrrr," Cinnamon yowled in response, obviously less pleased to see me.
Clutching the struggling cat against my chest, I urgently waved the men into John's apartment with my free arm, dumping Cinnamon into the hall as I held open the door. He hissed and ran off to 'his' chair in the corner of the living room. Jumping into the seat, the cat set to irritably cleaning itself while staring daggers at our group. I released the door after they entered, hearing it clunk heavily behind us.
Composing myself, I assessed Cinnamon's saviors. Both were tall, handsome black men, dressed in polos and khaki shorts, and each wore a lanyard around his neck. I eagerly ushered the strangers to the couch, casting a suspicious glance over my shoulder at the beast in the corner, before taking a seat myself in the chair occupied by my discarded sweatshirt.
