A MEMORY ABOUT THEIR CHILDREN.
“Mhmmm.” They’re not listening, and it’s always crystal clear when attention disengages, because they don’t even try to disguise it. Eyes frozen to their own feet, watching the little ball of fur that resides there now. “Yeah. Right. – What’s this?” Abrupt change of topic, their voice rising in pitch with the innocent question.
Mid speech the man across the desk, standing to sift through folders and misty plastic containers, stops and looks over his shoulder, appraising the situation. There are animals everywhere around here, but they’re not usually so young, and abnormally normal looking. There are even spiders crawling up the textured walls of their habitats, lit up by a charming red and blue glow. The shadows they cast unnerving but not lacking in aesthetic contribution, Marge has to give them that. “Stray.” Dubiety clear, disinterest even clearer. It’s probably been here for days. Marge doesn’t take their eyes off of the four pawed foot warmer staring back at them – little mouth agape, with no sound produced from the motion.
“You mean orphan.” The man doesn’t hear this, or chooses not to; he’s busy with something unseemly Marge similarly chooses not to witness (like usual). Orphan might not be the right technical word, but it packs the right punch of isolation; of abandonment.
Crouching in place, all six feet of them folding and hugging into their own knees. Marge goes eye to eye with the scrawny cat. A black and white mix, they don’t know what that’s called. It sits up due to the disruption. Spins around and touches the invisible layer of skin animal’s have around their nose to Marge’s calf a few times – it has to be real, because they always flinch away before they’ve even touched you, and it can’t be this one’s whiskers, they’ve been clipped. “Coochie coo, kitty.” The fur from the imposing bookie’s coat tickles the feline’s curiosity, but loses its appeal when two paws find leverage enough to lift minuscule weight to nose at blue strands of hair this time (washed out, in need of a fresh dye).
A sweet mewl mixes with a snort, the kitten’s mouth caught up in a loose-hanging curl, warping the noise. Big, kohl lined eyes cross with Marge’s attempt to keep the animal in focus despite closeness; it smells like engine fuel, or something equally greasy that would stain badly. They try to forget all they know about automotive know-how, everything about their modern habits just feels more natural that way. “I know a thing or two about that too.” Pinkie finger replaces dry tresses, allowing pin-prick fangs to rub across cracked skin a few times until it’s red (not a healthy practice with street strays; not important right now. or later. marge died like two years after this,, maybe they had rabies. maybe they didn’t. i’ll change cause of death to cat disease).
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