DIE KATZE

Meow, meow! Tsk, tsk, tsk. Come here, you cuddly thing. Sweet little ducky, sweetie, snuggle-tucky, sweetie-snoozy. That’s roughly how the “conversation” between the stray cat next to our front door and me goes. It sounds romantic, kind of cute. A strange cat as a friend. But so far, it’s a purely one-sided relationship. Every time I walk past her, which is several times a day, I find myself in a situation you’d normally only see in bad college movies: Me, a pimply ginger, skulking down the hallway with my ten books. My thick-rimmed glasses wobble with every sniffle, a daily occurrence thanks to chronic sinusitis. A nerd, a loser, a good-for-nothing lost in the repugnant school system. The only dream that makes me forget the awful school life full of bullying and head-in-the-toilet incidents is going to prom with Mary Thompson. Or at least talk to her. Or at least just accidentally brush against her arm once as I passed by. Feel what it felt like, the warmth. But Mary Thompson couldn’t care less about someone like me. Me, who has nothing to offer and probably nothing else in common with her, except that by the grace of the Lord, pure chance, we happen to be in the same school hallway every day.

That one time it almost happened: I was running late for Math II and was rushing down the dreary hallway. The chess club application form was practically falling out of my folder, my glasses were threatening to slide off my nose at an alarming rate, and the shoelace of my brown patent leather shoes was untied. When I looked up in my panic, there she was. Mary Thompson. I just barely managed to stop about ten centimeters from her. She turned around and looked at me with her breathtaking beauty. I saw each individual hair fluttering in the wind like an angelic wing, loose, casual, elegant. The sky-blue of her crystal-clear eyes enveloped me like a cozy, warm cloud. This feeling, which surely lasted only about three seconds and was certainly comparable to the first hit of heroin—why else would I be addicted to her?—suddenly stopped when she opened her mouth: “MEOW!!!” She bared her sharp teeth, the dark hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and her eyes, which just moments before had shone like the brightest diamonds in the sunlight, contorted in a menacing way. It was a clear command: Steve McMichaels, you loser, get out of my way immediately (and forever)! I lowered my head and obeyed.

I can’t even begin to count how many times I saw her after that incident. How often I’ve imagined, or rather, had to imagine, running my fingers through her glossy fur, gently stroking her behind the ears, and after the third cuddle and a treat or two from the pet shop, inviting her home. How she’d lie beside me by the fireplace, stretch gracefully, yawn deeply, and then slowly snuggle up to my leg so I could pat her. It could be so wonderful.

But she is Mary Thompson. And I am Steve McMichaels. Breathing without air, shadows without light. It’s impossible. It will never be possible. So, forever, I will walk past her, dreaming, and have to fight back a very, very heavy tear. Only she, she who in her unapproachable elegance seems to possess everything, will never know how I feel about her.

Image: Ubaid Shareef, https://www.pexels.com/photo/street-cat-20816518/