Chlorine and Whiskey

The cat — a ragged tom I'd named Bartholomew — stared at me from the fire escape, his yellow eyes judging the whiskey bottle in my hand. He'd been showing up for three weeks since Sarah left, and somewhere in his calculation of my dwindling dignity, he'd decided I was worth keeping around.

"You're better at this than I am," I told him, but he only licked a paw and continued his inspection.

Friday arrived with the usual grey surrender. I'd become something of a zombie at work — present in body, hollowed out elsewhere. My team noticed. They'd stopped asking if I was okay sometime around week two, when I'd accidentally scheduled a meeting for 3 AM and stared at them all through it like they were ghosts.

Then came the invitation to Roberts' pool party. Roberts, who'd gotten promoted over me. Roberts, whose wife Sarah now answered to.

"Just go," said April from the cubicle next to mine. "Show them you're not dead inside. Or be dead inside fabulously. Either way, bring a bottle."

So I went. The pool glittered with that artificial blue that looks cyanide-perfect under evening lights. Bodies moved through the water like fish in an aquarium I couldn't bring myself to tap on. Sarah stood near the shallow end, holding a drink, laughing at something Roberts said.

I made it twenty minutes before needing air. Found myself on the back deck, where Bartholomew apparently also lived — he was perched on the railing, watching the party with what I now recognized as professional detachment.

"You again," I said.

He meowed. It sounded suspiciously like: "You look ridiculous, human."

Sarah appeared behind me. "You brought him?"

"He showed up when you left. Never really left."

"Typical." She stepped closer, smelling like coconut sunscreen and expensive gin. "I miss him."

"The cat or me?"

She didn't answer. Just watched the pool, where Roberts was demonstrating a cannonball that would make everyone pretend to be impressed. "I don't think I'm happy either, Mark."

The zombie feeling evaporated. Something else took its place — something messier, something that wasn't nearly as convenient as being dead inside.

Bartholomew jumped between us, and we both reached down to scratch him behind the ears. Our hands touched. Neither pulled away.

"Well," I said. "That's something."

"Yeah," she said. "That's something."

The cat purred like he'd been planning this all along.