The Mailboxes

It’s been raining all day. One of those weird, warm summer storms. The large drops are melting their way through my jacket that I’ve been holding over my head, so everything’s a little damp despite my efforts.

As I cross the street to my house, an ominous peal of thunder vibrates my bones. I decide to check my mail before going in because I likely will not be going back outside today.

I’m grabbing the few pieces of mail in my box when I hear a weird rustling sound, different from the rain and the wind. I close my mailbox and hunch over to get a better look at the bush where the sound came from.

Something moves.

I hesitantly pull aside a couple of branches and take a closer look.

It’s a pitiful, wet old cat with a remarkably small head. She yowls with disdain.

“Now, what are you doing out here—“

“Holy shit, is that a cat?”

Startled, I stumble a little and have to grab onto the fence to stay upright. I peer over my shoulder and there stands Nazari, her hair completely soaked, with her rain jacket drawn over what looks like a stack of books in her arms.

“Uh. Yes,” I reply.

“It has such a small head,” she ponders.

“It does have a small head,” I affirm.

“We gotta take it inside! Can you—“ She nods towards the sopping wet, collarless cat.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” I glance back at Nazari one more time before tentatively picking up the cat. She lets me without much of a fight. She just hangs limply in my arms, complaining loudly.

Nazari leads the way into the building. “C’mon,” she says, and I follow her up the wooden staircase to the second landing. She turns to open the door on the right, propping the stack of books she was carrying on her knee while she fumbles the key into the lock. I watch as she turns the knob and forcefully shoves open the door with her hip.

She unceremoniously drops the books on a table by the door, flicks on a lamp, and then immediately disappears into a room to the left.

I continue to hold the cat, who, now that she is out of the rain, decided that I am threat and has dug her claws into my arm to her satisfaction. I ignore it and take a brief look around from where I stand, dripping, on the hardwood floor.

There are a significant number of books in piles similar to the ones that Nazari just brought in. I inch a little closer to the newest stack and squint at the titles. Looks like she’s doing research on something relating to sexual violence and human trafficking. “Brutal,” I murmur.

I look up as Nazari returns, her arms full of blankets. She drops them in a pile on the ground in front of her little dark green couch. She turns to look at me. “There we go. Wanna set ‘er down?”

I stare for a beat too long. Her eyes are this dark, dark brown, full of bright things. “Uh, yeah.” I detatch the cat from my arm and lower her down to the blankets. She squirms out of my hands and immediately and affectedly begins to bathe herself.

I look back up at Nazari and she looks right back at me. “Should uh…” I glance down at the cat and clear my throat. “Should we uh… milk? Or something?”

“Huh?” Nazari squints at me for a moment, trying to decipher my almost-sentences. “Oh! Yeah. Well, actually, did you know that most cats are lactose intolerant? I mean, popular media always portrays cats drinking milk, but it’s basically the worst thing you can give cats. It gives them fucking diarrhea. I mean, it’s fucking ridiculous that some asshole decided that cats are lactase persistent and now everyone just fucking—“ She shakes her head and brings her fingers to her temples. “I’m gonna scramble some eggs.” Then she disappears into the kitchen.

A little dazed, I continue to squat on the floor next to the blanket nest that houses the cat with the tiny head. I gaze at the doorway to the kitchen. Nazari’s got an overwhelming sort of presence. Always moving, always doing, imperative.

I look down at the cat for guidance. She’s in the middle of bathing one of her back legs, the fat little limb suspended in the air like a mast. When she catches me watching, she gives me an affronted look and drops her leg back down.

“Sorry,” I mutter and look away. I decide that the cat doesn’t need supervision and I creak to my feet and amble over to the kitchen to lean in the doorway.

Nazari is at the stove, cracking an egg directly into a pan. With the shell still cupped in her hand, she squints at the egg. “Motherfucker,” she mumbles and then gingerly fishes around for what I can only assume to be a piece of eggshell.

She leans back in approval, and then turns her back completely to me, tossing the eggshell in the trashcan under the sink. She throws on the faucet, scrubs her hands clean, and then haphazardly dries her hands on the butt of her pants. When she turns around to go back to the stove, I realize I probably should have announced my arrival.

“Fucking SHIT,” she yelps with a start.

I hold up my hands defensively, backing out of the doorway a little. “I am so sorry. I did not mean to—“

“Oh, JESUS. I did NOT see you there.” She leans over and places her hands on her knees.

“Are… are you okay?” I take a tiny step forward.

She glances up incredulously.

“I—uh—I’ll just go—“

“No, no—“ She laughs shortly. “It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s all—it’s fine.” She’s standing upright now.

I stay where I am, hovering just outside the kitchen.

“Promise,” she encourages.

Then we just stand there, sort of looking at each other until Nazari glances over at the stove. “Eggs.” Then she reassumes her position in front of the frying pan, nabbing a spatula, and begins to scramble up the egg. “Can you—uh—grab me a bowl from the cabinet back there?” She glances behind her and sloppily points the spatula towards the other end of the small kitchen.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I say and take a guess at which one “that cabinet” is. I open the one on the top right and, sure enough, there is a hodgepodge collection of earthenware bowls and mugs. I grab one at random and place it on the countertop to the left of the stove, accidentally grazing Nazari’s arm with my hand. She jumps slightly.

“Thanks.”

I rub my hand where we touched. It’s warm and vaguely tingling. I linger a little longer and then retreat back to the living room to check on the cat.

I sit down on the floor by the blankets and peer inside the nest. The cat is now asleep in a little ball, only one single paw peeping out from under her ample, furry belly.

Nazari enters the room soon after with the little bowl of scrambled eggs, blowing on them lightly as she walks. She gets down on her hands and knees beside me and makes a couple of meowing sounds. The cat’s tail stirs, swiping impatiently from side to side. Nazari sets the bowl of eggs down inside the blanket nest and sits back on her heels, brushing my shoulder lightly and causing my chest to tighten and then loosen. The cat lifts her head lazily, sniffing at the air, and then decides that the smell is worth investigating. She prissily climbs to her feet and examines the bowl with skepticism. But apparently hunger wins out, because she soon begins to take small, careful bites, making those soft, wet chewing sounds that cats make.

I glance at Nazari and she looks back, holding my gaze. And she’s so beautiful. So beautiful it almost hurts because I’d like to look at her like this for a lot longer that I’ll get to. I get that same tightness, sitting warm in my chest. Her eyes are almost black in the dim lamplight, only the occasional lightning strike from the living room windows illuminating them. Her hair is still wet, dribbling lightly onto her shirt, a few strands sticking to her cheeks. And her eyelashes are so long that they’re a little disorderly and one has managed to fall onto the side of her nose.

“Uh, you’ve got a—“ I brush the side of my own nose to demonstrate.

“Oh,” she laughs and scrubs at her face. “Gone?” She looks back at me.

“Uh, nope, still there.”

She swipes at her nose again, looks up.

I breathe out a nervous, breathy laugh and shake my head. “Still there.”

“Shit, dude.”

“Do you want me to—“

“—yeah, you should—“

“—get it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

I edge a little closer to her and tentatively reach out my hand to rub my thumb against the smooth, bony bridge of her nose.

And it still doesn’t come off.

“So stubborn,” I grumble and Nazari shakes light with laughter.

“You sure you got it?” She asks and I feel her breath, cool against my increasingly warm skin.

I look her in the eye and give her a wavering grin. “You kidding? I don’t give up that easy.”

I furrow my brow in concentration and gently place my fingertips on her cheekbone for leverage as my thumb makes another pass over the side of her nose.

I peer at the pad of my thumb and there sits a small, black eyelash. “Got it,” I breathe. I hold out my thumb to her and she grabs my hand lightly, looking at the eyelash. My heart begins to pound harder than it has been.

She blows on my thumb lightly and the eyelash takes off, landing somewhere on the floor. Then she looks back up at me for what feels like an eternity and simultaneously no time at all, and then all at once she’s tugging my hand towards her and I’m leaning into her and I’m gathering up her thick black hair between my fingers and we’re kissing. Fiercely and steadily. We’re kissing. And I can’t breathe and her hand is on my sternum, but it feels like it’s holding my heart, and her breath is moth wings on my cheek.

And then we’re tumbling over onto the blankets. The bowl of scrambled eggs spills over, some of it landing basically in my mouth, and the cat is yowling indignantly.

I blow out little puffs of air and swipe at my mouth, trying to expel the cat fur and eggs. Meanwhile, Nazari is boiling over with laughter. It’s this explosive, boisterous laugh that’s astonishingly loud. And then I start to laugh too, a quiet laugh that shakes my whole body.

Then we’re silent.

She tosses her over to look at me, fondly I think, and then says, “I’m Sara.”

“Pinkus—ah, Charlie—Charlie Pinkus.”

She holds out her hand to me and we shake.

“Nice to meet you.”