The poet and the cat.

- I thought you were going home.

- I don’t have such a thing called like this.

Oh, nice. Now she looks ashamed. From freezing cold to unconformable warm. You’re such a heartkiller, don’t you, Poet? Just keep talking like this and that’ll be a complete success.

It was irony, obviously.

- But geez!, don’t worry, I manage go on with my life, you know. In summer I go travelling around the country, here and there, doing little jobs, and on winter I stay with…- I get lost myself in my eternal chit-chat. I don’t want to see that she’s ignoring me again.

That ‘again’ it’s what hurts the most.

Why did I fall in love with her?

Oh, yeah, because of the story.

I love interminable tales about impossible romances. And when I saw her for the first time, I thought she would be my perfect fantasy partner, without thinking that I eventually would fall for her. Hard.

- Well, I’m afraid I can keep talking. I’ve got some business to attend –she says, without looking at me. In fact, come to think, I don’t recall her ever looking me at the eyes.

- As you want, chatte.

- If you call me like this again, I will stab you.

It's not a joke; I can see her stroking the handle of the sword.

- I cannot see why you get so upset. It’s just a nickname. And therefore, it’s your name, too. Chat.

- I hate nicknames.

- But that one’s lovely.

- You haven’t any idea of French, right?

Fuck, did I screw it?

- Whatever, I’ll just go home. Goodnight. Don’t get raped.

Aw, so sweet. She’s worrying about me.

- I won’t. I’ll wait for you.

- It is curious how you keep on trying. You’re such a masochist.

- Maybe –I grin. It’s not a happy one- But I hope one day you’ll realize that I would do anything for you.

She turns left, and I get to see her piercing eyes, even thought the contacts. She is looking at me. Face to face for first time.

- I already know that, Poet.