This was some random idea I had at work, don't expect me to finish it.
Kris was holding it in her lap, wearing that green sweater with those thin, tight rayon short-pants that cling to her thighs and highlights the shape of her ass and hips. The sleeves extend four inches over her hands, and it’s cute too, in a way. I’m not fond of the girl, but I like how she’s dressed, attractive, like her sister Sadie.
It repeated that phrase over and over, and she’s petting it while Noa, standing across from her, watched, moonlight streaming in through the windows in the ceiling. He found it outside three hours earlier, wandering around second district. It’d been drifting in between the curling fingers of the streets for days; Noa noticed it one afternoon when he’d left his apartment. He’d been let off early that morning, and, while he found it interesting, had ignored it, figuring it’d been for the best. To him, running into a cat would’ve been a problem, and, with his nature playing to the tune of “Let’s see what happens”, left it up to chance to decide whether or not it’d end up living with him.
Then she’d found it.
[“Wakari”] it began, stopping to yawn, mouth opening two inches, rippling waves of fur, white, with a single black square on its side pushed back like an accordion, before continuing.
“What’s it sayin’?” he asked her moments earlier, cut off by the cat. She was dozing; hands ran over its belly, scratching tenderly, like some mother disinterested. A few times she’d bounce back into reality to catch her glasses before they could slip from the bridge of her nose. He told her to go to bed, let that dreaded thing out the back, but she’d not have it.
She lifted it, turning, inspecting, and then set it back between her thighs, cross-legged on Noa’s floor. She twirled a braid in thought.
“I don’t know, Japanese is a dead language, after-all.”
“So what is it?”
The faint shadow of a smile passed over her face, running her hand through the fur on its back.
“A spirit from the old-world, might’ve been from Tokyo.”
Noa stared at her, adjusted the collar on his shirt. It was frugal, black. The kind of shirt you’d wear painting a house or peeling wallpaper.
“I don’t understand.” He said.
“Well sure you don’t, I don’t either but… it happens.”
“What?” he said moving over, stooping down beside her.
“Old spirit, the dead from the Tower. It might ressurect the dead from time to time, putting their souls in frames like this cat.” She said, smelling the hand that’d been stroking it’s fur. Just as she thought; nothing.