Eve and Cat. (Not a Poem) -- Peggy's poetry fourm

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Date Posted: 12:36:13 12/31/01 Mon
Author: Sparkles
Author Host/IP: 129.137.172.124
Subject: Eve and Cat. (Not a Poem)

This is the beginning of a book I have been working on. Any feedback at all would be very much appreciated.

Eve and Cat

Cat

"At Childhood's hour, I was not as others were."

Edgar Allen Poe. Cat first read that in her Prentice Hall literature book her sophomore year. Since then it had become her mantra. Her English teacher, a stout woman as wide as she was tall, was lecturing on Romeo & Juliet. Romeo & Juliet was Cat's least favorite Shakespearean play. It was overrated, she thought. And killing yourself over some guy you'd just met? What if it turned out that once Juliet got to know him better that he was a total fraud? He could have been a really sick person, a twisted person. He could have been a schizo, or a transvestite. There were screwed up people back then, too, you know. And then Juliet would have died for nothing. For a stranger. For a fraud.

I was not as others were. Cat was not naive. She realized that 95% of teenagers felt different from everybody else. Maybe even 99%. They were all, in their own eyes, outcasts. But Cat knew she was different before she hit the teen angst period of her life. She knew long before then that she was like no one else. Not that she was complaining, she didn't want to be like the rest. She definitely didn't want to be like them. And only Eve, dependable Eve, could understand. And then again, sometimes even she didn't.

Eve

It was a summery Wednesday night. The dog days of summer. It was so humid outside her bedroom walls that her short hair curled in damp strands across her forehead. She doesn't notice that the moist warmth in the room makes her skin stick anymore. She doesn't notice the constant hum of June bugs clinging to the window's screen. It's routine to slap away the black flies that bite at your skin before a rain shower.

Eve is thinking. About Aidan. Laying on her bed, staring at her ceiling fan whir, she's contemplating. She's trying to organize her thoughts, but they all settle into one, a little sighing voice in her head swooning, Aidan. Her friends are all sick of hearing about him, she knows. She needs to think about something else. Anything. She looks around her room, her eyes settling on a poster of Audrey Hepburn. She mentally traces the shape of the movie star's mouth, the fringe of her eyelashes, the curve to her cheekbones. Someday Eve would wake up and look like her.

Eve's bedroom is a classic movie star motif. Marilyn Monroe pouts from behind painted lips, James Dean smirks at you, and Miss Hepburn gazes sweetly from their places on her walls. There's even Charlie Chaplin behind her desk, complete with his black bowler hat and cane. There are no boy band posters on her walls, no talentless pretty boy actors. Only the real ones are allowed to rest on her walls for all to see. There is a large movie rack to the side of her TV and VCR, holding a wide range of movies- anything from Casablanca to Mallrats. You can tell which films are her favorites by which ones have tattered box covers and which ones still appear brand new. Aside from classic films, Eve is also passionate about Kevin Smith's films, the dark humor, the sarcasm and wit. The only modern actor Eve idolizes is Robert Downey Jr. She's oddly obsessed with troubled geniuses�and that dark hair, those expressive eyes�they get her vivid imagination going with one soulful stare. She doesn't tell anyone what she pictures him doing to her when she's lying awake at night, sweating, only a thin sheet covering her body.

Eve sighs. She's finished tracing each diamond on the tiara that sits upon Audrey's French twist. The distant ring of a phone is heard from downstairs. She props herself up on her elbow, ears perked, waiting to hear if the call is for her. Even while being upstairs, her Dido c.d. playing, and her bedroom door shut, Eve's fathers footsteps can be heard tromping throughout the foyer.
Next, a loud voice, �Eve, phone.�

It's Aidan. She opens her bedroom door to retrieve the cordless. Breathless from running down the stairway,
�Hello?�
�Hi Eve�You know who this is, right? It's me, Cat.�

Cat. Her childhood friend.

That dream. Eve was sitting on the floor of her room, alone. In front of her was a shoebox decorated in old wedding wrapping paper. From her cousin Theresa's wedding, she thinks. It's filled with photos now. She was conscious of a small smile on her face as she sifted through them, one by one. She pauses at one of her at age two, licking out a bowl of brownie batter, chocolate from ear to ear. There are gobs of it in her hair, on the front of her pink Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls. Ah, those were the days, she muses, before flipping to the next. This next one was one she'd never seen before. It must belong to Cat. It showed Cat sitting in a classroom, sporting the same hair style she'd had 6 years ago, in the sixth grade; dark and short, tucked behind her tiny ears, always making her look like some sort of wilted pixie. She was wearing a colorful childish sweater, one that only a five year old could be forced to wear for a family portrait to send out to distant relatives in a Christmas card. Her cheeks are still chubby, her breasts haven't begun to show. All of the other kids appeared to be much older. Eve wonders why her desk is apart from the others.

Then Eve is standing at the doorway of the classroom, wearing her Hard Rock Caf� tee-shirt, her ripped blue jeans, and barefoot except for a silver toe ring on her left foot. It doesn't seem at all strange to her that she has, indeed, stepped inside of a photograph. Or that many of the people in the room have red glowing eyes as the result of the camera's flash.

For a second the room is silent. Then a low murmur of everyone in the classroom talking, the teacher repeatedly looking up from his desk and frowning at the conversation when they should be working on page 504 in their texts, questions one through five. Nobody, not even the teacher, notices her presence. Eve continues to watch. None of the kids look familiar. She recognizes only Cat.

Cat, isolated from everyone by positioning her desk to the corner of the classroom, is pretending to work on the assignment. Eve can tell she's pretending because of the way her eyes don't move to read the printed words, they focus on one spot on the page. Every so often, she looks up and scans the room, as if waiting for someone to come and save her. Eve is shaken at the expression of pure loneliness on Cat's face. Eve is torn between going over to her and tousling her hair, and leaving the room so as not to embarrass her by letting Cat see that she has witnessed this low moment. Cat was always the center of attention. Always. She doesn't want Cat to know she saw her like this.

�Cat, you dumbass. Of course I knew it was you. You're the only one I know who sounds like a sophisticated New Yorker.�

�God, Eve. I don't really sound different, do I? I can't sound different. I grew up in Maine�� Cat's voice is dramatic, as if sounding changed would be the end of the world.

�No, you still sound like you. � Doesn't Cat know that Eve will always know her voice?

�Good.� The relief is visible in her tone.

�So�how's the weather in the Big Apple?�

�'The Big Apple'? When you come for a visit, you're not going to wear an �I �heart' New York City� tee-shirt and a green foam Statue of Liberty crown, are you?� Eve can hear Cat's soft laugh, and suddenly misses her.

�Sure I am. Being recognized as a tourist is half the fun.� She smiles, picturing herself walking the streets of New York, holding a huge map in her hand and wearing a dazed look on her face.

�You know, that is true�just don't but a �Gucci� watch from a street vendor for twelve bucks and believe it's real. It'll turn your wrist green in less than a week.�

�I'll keep that in mind.�

�Anyway, to answer your question, the weather's hot�it's definitely August. I was laying out in Central Park today, and you should see my back. It's going to be peeling off like sheets of paper by tomorrow.�

�You're going to end up with skin like leather by the time you're twenty-five.� She can hear Cat's snort on the line, but continues anyway.
�And by the time you're thirty, you'll be dead from skin cancer.� Immediately after saying this, she wishes she hadn't. She doesn't want to sound like her mother. Her mother worked in a dermatologist's office, for Dr. Scott, and was constantly telling skin horror stories at the kitchen table and bringing home boxes of sample sunscreens with SPF 65.

�Maybe so. But at least I'll be tan in my coffin.� Cat laughs.

Eve smiles at Cat's carelessness.
�So do you think you'll come up this summer? I haven't seen you since Christmas time.�

�Actually, that's why I called. I won't be able to come up this summer.� Cat's voice is strangely uncaring sounding, and Eve wonders whether or not to become pissed at her for not minding that she won't see her before school starts.

�Why not? You come every summer�you have been for the last five years.� Eve is surprised. She's never gone a summer without Cat. She fiddles with her pale blue bracelet, fingering the beads like a rosary as she waits for Cat's response.

�My grandma, the one who lives in SoHo, is dying�brain cancer. She's only got a few months, the doctors say. I need to be here. My mom's been crying all the time.�

Oh. Oh shit. Her face goes red, majorly regretting her remark about skin cancer now. Her mouth was always getting her in trouble.

�Cat�I'm sorry.� Dammit, that awkwardness. She never knows how to say the right thing, never knows how to respond to death, to cancer.

She can hear Cat exhaling slowly.
�It's okay. Well, no�not really okay�but I'll deal.�

There's an awkward pause.
�So Eve, tempted any of the male species lately?�

Eve is surprised at the sudden change of pace, but is feeling selfish for the relief of a new subject. Here, on this topic, she has something to say.

�Not since I've met Aidan. For once I want what I actually have, not what I can't get.�

�You're kidding. Did that just come out of your mouth?� Cat feigns disbelief.

�I know. Can you believe it?� Eve can't believe it herself.

�So. Tell me about him.�

�He's tall�brown hair. Brown eyes. Eyelashes to die for�not what you would think of as my type, actually.� Eve's rambling, she knows. She can't find the words to give him justice.

�Your type?�

�He's an innocent. You know perfectly well that I like to be the one being corrupted.�

�Ah. Right. You should really see someone about that�but as long as he has long eyelashes...�

Eve swallows, wanting to say something, but she knows Cat isn't big on mushy stuff. She says it anyway.
�Cat�. I'm really going to miss you this summer. �

�I know. I can't remember a summer we haven't spent together.�

�That's because we never have.� Don't you realize that, Cat? Eve is thinking, more than mildly hurt.

�Oh. Yeah.�

�Well. I'll be thinking of you. Well, I always think of you when there's a pillow between my legs.� Lighten the situation, lighten the situation.

�Haha! Of course you do. Shit Eve, you always manage to shock me. You've always looked so fucking innocent�.�

�Oh, you mean my blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair? Baby, you know I'm not innocent.� Eve's laughing now, beginning to enjoy herself.

�Yeah, I know that you're not. But I can't even imagine how you shock other people who don't know how crude you are under that little angel exterior you've got going on. You sit there and smile all sweet, looking like a girl from a Kodak commercial�. And then you open your mouth.�

Laughing, �Kitty, you know you love it.�

�Of course I do. I love contradictions. And you're a contradiction all your own, Eve.�

�What you see isn't always what you get. That's all.�

�Ain't that the truth.� Eve can hear her sigh, all the way from New York City.

Cat

Cat presses the off button on her cordless, tossing the phone a little too roughly onto the carpeted floor. Gray, the carpet. Dark gray. She didn't get to choose the color when they moved into the apartment, it had been there the day they arrived. Five years ago she would've chosen something like purple, or a deep blue. Now gray seems perfect.

Ah, moving day. Cat remembers the day well. Stepping into the old Blazer, watching her old house slowly disappear through her veil of tears. The drive took hours. She spent the time scribbling into her notebook. Sometimes writing a letter to Eve, sometimes doodling nonsense. She was anxious. Well, she was frightened, lonely, and excited all at the same time. Until then, she hadn't thought that you could feel those things all at the same time. It hadn't seemed humanly possible. Now she knew it was. She was frightened because moving was always frightening. Living in Maine was the longest her family had stayed in one place. Frightened because she didn't want to be the new girl in school again. Lonely because she'd left the closest friend she'd had in years. Aside from being frightened and lonely, there was the odd feeling of excitement that made her feet not keep still, that made her not be able to doze off in the car, even though she'd taken Dramamine. While her parents listened to an Oldies station on the radio, Cat wished for a wooden spoon so that she might slowly poke it up her nose and pull out bits of gunk extracted from her brain. Her older brother, Jimmie, had fallen asleep instantly. He had pressed his pillow up against the car window, laid his head against it, and was now softly snoring. Putting a pillow over her own head, she wondered what living in New York would be like. Reminding herself, �Anything is possible.� Isn't that what adults were always preaching to her? All that �Shoot for the moon, if you miss you'll still land among the stars� bullshit.

Noise, lights, constant excitement�isn't that what New York was all about? Never a dull moment, right? What nobody told her was that police sirens sounding through the night was the loneliest sound in the world. That while the streets were filled with crowds of people, none of them knew you. That you felt unsettled, strangely insignificant. Cat felt tinier here than she did in Maine when she would lay on a lounge chair in the back yard, looking up at the night sky, feeling less significant than a speck of sand on the bottom of the ocean. When she got that feeling, she used to have to do something routine like go inside and load the dishwasher, or watch the Simpsons before she felt back to herself again. That routine didn't work here.

She'd been an abnormally shy child. She swears that she didn't talk to anyone until she reached the sixth grade. She was nicknamed �The Shadow� by her parents because of the way she would cling to her mother's legs in public, in crowds of people. Family functions were the worst. She was petrified of her Uncle Jack. He looked like Santa Claus, complete with a stomach that jiggled like a bowl full of jelly. He loved to kiss his little nieces, and Cat would run for her life when he aimed for her, the thought of his beer breath and prickly beard was enough to make her cry. He would offer to give her a dollar for a kiss, but no amount of money would be enough to get her to kiss him. All of her aunts and uncles would laugh, and her mom would smile and say, �I don't want my daughter kissing for money anyway.� Cat hadn't gotten that joke until quite a few years later.

Sex. Her parents had never told her about it. You'd have thought with a brother 5 years older than her that he might make the initiative, but he never did. She learned about the great mystery from Eve. Eve's parents had gotten her a book about the subject when they were in the fourth grade, and Cat would go to Eve's house after school, the two of them holing up in her room, reading the book, rereading the �juicy parts.� They giggled when they said some of the words aloud, �Penis, climax, orgasm.� Some of the words they stumbled over, �Ejaculation, fallopian tubes.� They looked at the technical diagrams of the body parts �down there� and laughed uncontrollable over the oddness of a boy's body. Then they looked at the diagram of the female, never realizing that they had so much junk down there, how complicated their own bodies were. Some days, when they were feeling particularly bold, they would take a hand mirror into the bathroom, and take turns sliding their panties down to their ankles, giving themselves a good look to make sure they looked like the picture in the book.

Then there were the questions that both of them were too embarrassed to ask, for fear of feeling stupid for not knowing the facts. How does the sperm know to go to the egg and not somewhere else? Is it like a magnet? What does it feel like? How does it fit without hurting so bad you'd want to cry?

And of course, there was the dreaded thought. The most grotesque realization of all. Your parents did that. Not that it was fully understood at first.

Cat remembered that first conversation perfectly. They had looked at each other until at last Eve blurted,
"Well, at least my parents only did it once. I'm their only kid. Yours had to have done it twice because of Jimmie."

At first Cat thought that the only purpose of "doing it" was to make a baby. She didn't realize the pleasure factor of it until later.

Eve

It�s 6:46 p.m. She�s staring into the mirror on the wall, feeling like the evil queen in Snow White because of how critically she�s examining herself. She wishes her mirror could reassure her that she was not totally unattractive. Some days she felt good about herself, she walked with the air of �You know you want me,� but managed to not give off a slut-like vibe. She was able to get away with it because, in all reality, she was too fresh faced, too innocent, that only the people who know her best knew what lurked inside that pretty head of hers. Few people could imagine her doing anything �bad.� Whenever Eve mentioned sex to someone, the first thing out of their mouth would be, �But you look so innocent!� And then she�d smirk to herself, thinking, �If you only knew.� But that was Eve�s secret.

Other days she was not so proud of her looks. Everyone described her as �unique looking.� Some days she appreciated that, loving that no one could imitate her look, loving that she was born an original and would never die a copy. But, sometimes, that awkward teenage insecurity got her, and she�d start wishing she could blend, become a drab wallflower.

More than one person had told her she looked like an anime character. With her round eyes and small mouth, she could see the resemblance. But it�s not every day that someone tells you that you look like a cartoon, so it�s odd that more than one person has described her as one. Of course, she should be used to it. When she was a little girl, she was told she looked like a green eyed Ariel from the Little Mermaid. Or maybe they were humoring her. She grew up swimming in her above ground pool in the backyard, pretending she was Ariel, with her long red hair floating around her shoulders, her feet pressed together, pretending they were fins. Hell, for some time, it�s possible that she was convinced that she really was Ariel. Only she could never sing. Not that that stopped her.

She stops the critical examination, and brushes her teeth instead. She brushes them for as long as she can stand, until the strong mint taste makes her tongue burn. Then a splash of cold water on her cheeks. She�s flushed and nervous, which is totally unlike her. Eve and nervousness simply do not go together. But her stomach won�t stop making funny gurgling noises, it�s not fooled by her attempt to calm down. She looks at herself one more time, then walks down the stairs, out the front door, and into the sun.

June 6

Oh God, so there he was. Waiting at the table, drinking iced tea, drumming his fingers against the table. He looked nervous. Which makes sense, he�s shy. I�m not. I walked into the coffeeshop, sat down. He smiled too quickly and faltered, �Hi Eve...� One thing about me is that I never show my nervousness. I don�t fidget or stutter.

And then there�s the clich�. He�s so different. Blah. How many girls have said that about the new guy of the week they�ve fallen in love with? But he is. College students ask to meet at a coffeehouse, not 17-year-old guys. Maybe not even college guys do that. They just usually ask when I turn 18. Then, it gets fun.

�You�re only 17?� Then they look over my legs for about five years while I roll my eyes, until they finally drift their gaze to my face.

�Uh huh. I�m in high school.�

�So when do you turn 18?� Oh, Jesus.

�May 31.�

�Ohhh. That�s so long away!� Like they�ll be sitting there in their dorm, staring out the window, until you�re legal. Like they just can�t survive.

�Yeah. You�ll just have to pine away until then, I suppose��

�What�s your name?� So now they ask.

My name? �Suzanne.� My name has also been Randi, Cloey, and Bianca in the past. Once, I was tempted to say �Bambi.�

�Suzanne�that�s a pretty name. Suzanne, you have really green eyes�� Gag me. Gag me now.

Then, they scribble down my phone number on a napkin, the back of their hand. Not that it�s my real phone number. Sometimes, if I�m in a wicked kind of mood, I give them the phone number of some girl from school. I guess I really am just a revengeful creature sometimes. But people deserve it. Really they do.

But Aidan doesn�t. I walked in there, looked at him before I said hello back. His table for two was by the window, drenched in sunlight. When he tilted his head, I could see the sun glowing from behind his earlobe, pink red and warm. To me, it was the tenderest thing. I don�t know why. Like a tiny white scar or fluttering eyelids.

Cat

Today Cat woke up early. Her parents hadn�t woken up to leave for work yet, and Jimmie would sleep until noon as usual. She rised from her bed quietly, slipped into jeans and a tank top. She�d showered the night before. She checked herself in the mirror, rubbing a finger under each eye to remove sleep and leftover eye makeup. She grabbed her green knapsack, left a quick note on the kitchen table:
Went for walk. Be back later.
-Cat

Her parents didn�t think anything of Cat waking at the crack of dawn. Ever since moving, it had become her routine, while in Maine she would sleep half of the summer away during the afternoon, then go out at night. She�d told them that lately she�d been on an exercise kick, and early mornings were the best time to run. Her dad seemed impressed; he was always spending his free time at the gym. Sweaty people and spandex didn�t sound too tempting to Cat. So he was thrilled that she was outside, running in the fresh air. He even bought her running shoes- bright white Nikes with the little swoosh symbol on the side, a pair of shoes she would never dream of buying for herself. But she appreciated the gesture anyway. And they were comfortable, she gave him that.

Her dad was like that, buying her things that she would never put on a Christmas list, much less go out and buy herself. For the longest time he was buying her little stuffed animals wearing clothes, all of them coming with a nametag with cutesy names. Once he bought her a little stuffed mouse named Romano B. Grated. Those stuffed animals didn�t bother her though. The worst was when he started buying her porcelain dolls. Porcelain dolls were about as scary as clowns, with their big glass eyes and supernatural long eyelashes, and creepy frozen smiles plastered across their faces. At night she had to put them in her closet because they gave her the creeps if she left them out in the darkness of her room.

Her mom worried about her being in the city alone, but Cat promised to not wander too far and to keep her cell phone on her in case of something happening. What did her mom think would happen? Maybe rape or kidnap. But Cat knew to kick them in their junk and run. Oddly, she never felt threatened.

Her mom was a worrier. It must run in the family, because her mom�s sister, her Aunt Susie, is scared of everything. She won�t drive on the highway, and she makes her daughter sleep with her when her husband is out of town. They�re always worried about what might happen. As for Cat, she once had a dream where she fell from the top of a building, but never hit the ground. She just kept falling, nothing breaking the momentum. And instead of screaming, waiting for the inevitable landing, she just kept her eyes open, sucking it all in. She felt strangely calm and�slow. If it�s going to happen, then that�s all. You die.

Cat didn�t really awake at the crack of dawn to jog. She wasn�t the most athletic person around. She had runner�s legs, that�s what her junior high PE teacher told her, they were long, perfect for striding steps. But Cat would rather walk than get out of breath. She was never in a hurry to get anywhere. She�d get there soon enough.

Cat wandered, that�s why she got up early. An early morning in New York was the time Cat really liked the city. When outside the city was still gray with sleep, it could feel almost like a ghost town. It was a city crowded with buildings, but no people. There was the occasional jogger, and a few people hurrying to work early. But even they moved quietly, maybe realizing that the city needed its rest, too. It was the only time Cat could collect her thoughts lately. She used to have no problem with that. She was always thinking, something was always going on upstairs. Lately she felt like she was walking through a cloud of Jell-O. She had about as much going on upstairs as Homer Simpson.

Sometimes she�d take the subway to Soho and walk aimlessly, half-heartedly window shop. She liked to people watch. Who needed more entertainment than sitting on a bench and watching the people who walked by? That sounded like a good way to spend the day today. Tucking her ATM card into her wallet, she tossed that along into her knapsack as well as a book of Emily Dickinson�s poetry to read on the subway. People said Emily Dickinson was a hermit, never leaving her home, and always wore white nightgowns. Huh. Maybe being a recluse is the best way to be in this world.

The subway was pretty much empty. Sometimes, it�s so crowded that she can�t find a seat, and has to hold onto one of the poles, swaying back and forth, feeling self-conscious. No one ever talks on the subway. It�s kind of like being in an elevator for a really long period of time, where everyone faces in the same direction and doesn�t make eye contact. You just sit there and wait, and wait�. Then the movement stops, the doors slide open, and there�s a mad rush to the door, like the end of a school year. When you come out into the sun from being underground, it�s like coming up for fresh air after being underwater.

Most of the little shops weren�t open yet. Soho- The Cast Iron District. Before Cat had been here, she pictured a really gothic city from the name; intricate metal fences, old dark buildings, maybe some perching gargoyles. But it was more of what her junior high gym teacher would call �artsy fartsy.� Soho was an endless parade of boutiques and galleries and museums. In the heat, people set up huge umbrellas over a table laden with their own creations. These weren�t cheap Gucci watches, either. These were handcrafted things. Her favorite to look at was the jewelry. Especially the bright rhinestone designs, bracelets that glittered fiercely in the sun.

Only a few convenience stores were open. Cat wasn�t hungry, but her throat was dry. A Cherry Coke sounded good. She walked into the nearest store, one that smelled slightly of mothballs and Lysol. A dark skinned man behind the counter smiled, showing white teeth.

He spoke with a lyrical accent, �Good morning�up early, eh?� Cat couldn�t tell where he was from. Maybe India? Her town in Maine should have been called Narrow Ville. But it wasn�t, it was called Mourning Bay. Cat never was sure if the mourning part was as in grief, or as in how British people spell morning. Everyone was white and middle class there. It took a while to get used to the people here. At first she knew she stared at people passing by, she just couldn�t get over so many people living together, not letting their diversity get in the way. She could just imagine people from Mourning Bay coming for a visit and shitting themselves over each foreign person they saw.

�Yes. Just out for a jog.� She�d told so many people that that�s what she did most mornings that she was starting to believe it herself. Funny how that worked. Maybe that�s what hypochondriacs did. Tell people how sick they are for attention and then start to believe it themselves. Cat knew a girl from elementary school who would stick her finger down her throat in the morning before school so that she�d throw up and get to stay home. Laurie Anglemen. That was her name.

She grabbed a can of coke from the refrigerator in the back, and walked back up to the counter. She read the titles to the tabloids stacked next to the register. �Male Duck is Blessed with Eight Inch Penis�, �Human Baby Born with Fins�, �Rosie O�Donnell�s Secret Lesbian Lover.� As Cat left the store, she popped open the can�s tab with her thumb, wondering how that duck managed to swim without his disproportioned body sinking. Maybe he just used it to paddle, like a third leg?

Ah rain. Rain early in the morning is the best. It�s like the water is waking up the city, trying its best to erase the grime. Plus the city wasn�t boiling yet. When the sun has been beating down on the blacktop for hours, the streets become a steam bath, Cat�s skin sticky and warm, a feeling of filth clinging to her. The sight of it, though, reminded her of those old Hollywood movies, where there was tons of steam in the street where the two estranged lovers meet up again, and end up kissing in what appeared to be a giant white cloud. Really, though, it wasn�t so romantic as it was uncomfortable. But now it was too early for the steam, and now the rain was what rain should be, what rain was meant to be. Cat began to hope it would thunder. She always loved storms. Eve had been scared of them. Whenever she was over Eve�s house when a storm came, Cat sat out under the front porch, enjoying the noise and feel of it. But Eve would be in her room; her dogs locked in there with her; Sadie her yellow lab and Mr. Famous, her Yorkshire terrier. She had to have a Yorkshire terrier to name Mr. Famous when she turned 14, because that�s the kind of dog Audrey Hepburn had, and that�s what she named him. Whenever it stormed, even during the daytime, Eve hid under the covers with Mr. Famous and Sadie until it was over. Cat could never understand that.

Soho had some stores with names Cat never would have imagined: �Hattitude�, �Bu and the Duck�, �Oser Tribeca�, �Dudley�s Paw�, �The Bat Theater.� Here�s an interesting one, �The Purple Pickle.� Cat glanced at her watch, it was almost nine o�clock, and stores should be opening soon. Not that Cat was planning on buying anything, she just liked to look. She never even carried much money on her, just a few bucks for Subway fare and food, but she always had her ATM card, just in case. Cat walked up to the Purple Pickle�s window and peered in, a childish excitement coming over her when she saw all the plush stuffed animals and brightly colored toys, and the big window was framed with gold light bulbs. A handwritten sign on the door, that seemed to be written with a thick-quilled calligraphy pen, shouted OPEN in violet ink, and Cat headed inside.

A woman was lighting candles, and looked up when Cat walked in the door. She was wearing glasses with thick frames, and it appeared that she had painted them herself, bright dots of paint covered them in a lively design. Really they were quite gaudy, but for some reason they fit her perfectly, with her pale eyes and short blonde hair. Her nametag said �Rhoda� in more purple ink. She looked like she was caught in the act of something, and smiled quickly.

�I�m not supposed to light anything in here�with all these teddy bears, it�s a bit flammable.� She said confidingly, a bit embarrassed.

�Oh. Well, I won�t tell anyone.�

�I�ll blow them out in a bit, before the customers start wandering in. I just like to cover up the musty smell, this is an old place.�

�Why don�t you just use a spray? Some Febreeze or something.� After she said it, Cat felt dumb for butting in. Who cares what this lady used to get rid of a smell?

�I like the smell of these cinnamon candles better.�

�Oh,� said Eve dully. Then,
�Yeah. They smell nice.�

�Is this your first time here?�

�Yeah.�

�Ah. Well, look around. We�ve got all kinds of odds and ends.�

�Okay.� Cat smiled politely.

Rhoda wasn�t kidding. They did have all kinds of odds and ends. Stuffed animals of every creation- dragons with glittering eyes and sequined scales, unicorns with iridescent spiraled horns, cats with long shiny whiskers, tropical birds of paradise of every color. Then the books! �A Modern Witches Guide to the Occult�, �Tarot Readings�, �What do the Stars have Destined for You?� Someday Cat was going to write a book. Not a novel of mystery or fiction or romance, but a book of her poetry. She�d be the most popular modern poetess since Jewel. No. She was going to be the next Sylvia Plath. But hers was going to be a happier of endings. There was a bubbling fountain in the corner, with a water sprite statue standing on tiptoe, smack in the center of the pool of water. The dribbling sound reminded Cat of the Cherry Coke she�d just inhaled, and she suddenly had to pee. She looked around for a bathroom, but couldn�t find one. She walked back up to the front of the store.

�Do you have a restroom here?�

�Yes�see the shelf of incense to the right? It�s right behind there, behind that beaded curtain��

�Thanks.� Oh, of course� she should have known. Behind the beaded curtain.

Inside the �powder room�, as the sign outside clearly stated, Cat sat on the toilet. The day had started out fine, but now the melancholy feeling that was now such a familiar part of her was coming back. She could feel it coating her mind like a disease and as far as she knew, there wasn�t a way to stop it from spreading. It was just like at home, looking at the sky, a lump in her throat. Like she wasn�t sure she existed. She could just be a reflection of someone else. Like Alice in the Looking Glass. She wondered if Lewis Carroll knew what the fuck he was talking about when he wrote that. Maybe he did know something that no one else knew, and that scared her. Then again, wasn�t he a pedophile? That was pretty scary too.

Suddenly Cat wanted to do something. She reached inside of her backpack and opened the stall. She double checked the lock to the bathroom and walked up to the tiled wall, and with a black Sharpie marker she wrote (She supposed writing in purple would be more meaningful at the �Purple Pickle�, but black would have to do.) :

Away from Here

I had a dream last night
A wild horse
With a tangled mane of night
And liquid eyes that spoke
Took me away from here.

He nuzzled my cold shoulder
And his eyes told me that I was not from here.

I was meant for a different time.

Cat popped the cap back onto the Sharpie, put it in her back into her backpack, and was on her way to leaving the store. But by the door was a small table with a bowl on it, and leaned against the bowl was a note card that read, in purple ink of course,

Take One

And in smaller lettering,

Everyone needs something to carry on them,
Whether it be a lucky penny, a tattered photo, or a rabbits foot,
It�s nice to always have something familiar in your pocket.
Maybe one of these will be your familiar something.

Cat looked into the bowl and saw a handful of polished stones of all different colors and sizes. She ran her fingers over them and chose one- a flesh toned one with a pink shine. She held it in her hand until it turned warm, and then she put it into her jeans pocket. It wasn�t until later, on the subway ride home back to her apartment, that she noticed that there were two long slits on one side of the stone, looking like a pair of resting eyes.

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