SHORT STORY
Sultan, Pretty and Me Part 1
This is part one of our first ever three-part story, stay tuned for the next two issues to find out what happens next.
I sat, quiet, on the worn couch of my youth, struck full by the simple and extreme beauty of my cat. Sprawled in sloppy grace, white fur glowing in the slanting light of the setting sun, she, Pretty, efficiently washed her downy tum. Unwilling but forced by the moment of perfection, I fell to pondering the undeniable allurement of life. I wanted to deny the thoughts of breath and warmth that her lithe elegance brought. The relaxation – even in such a tendon-popping stretch – reminded me that nature had a lot to offer, that life held more attraction for the simplicity of a cat. I shifted my gaze to the unadorned wall across from the couch. Tired, I had, a moment before, been ruminating on Death’s stark loveliness. So clear as to be in the same room. Not corruption, was Death, but sterile, cold purity; an efficient housekeeper, devoid of emotion. I do not perceive Pretty’s innocence with the same eyes that looked upon only emptiness. For a pair of seconds, neither pet nor perimeter existed. The wall swam into focus. It showed old care by the neatly spackled and painted-over screw holes. Bookshelves had hung there, taken down when we’d sold our books to get through one particularly rough winter. Rising from the couch, its springs popping and creaking in ancient rhythm with my joints and bones, I shuffled to the center of the room on fuzzy-slippered feet and turned slowly in a circle. A room so familiar that it was strange: wooden floor, still showing the faint glow of (once) regularly applied polish, had lost its deep lustre; heavy, brown door with its shiny locks; huge, leaded window opening east onto the quiet street below (the main reason for our having picked this apartment); colourful area rug a few feet out from the window; ash-filled fireplace, with the unviewable pictures of a loving past on its plain, wood mantel; couch, the fabric in the front panel showing the shreds and threads of active claws. In the afternoon light, the cheap coffee table (plywood and plastic), empty but for the latest issue of ‘Home and Garden’, looked as out of place as it was. It could hardly replace its predecessor, a glorious antique oak, garage-sale treasure that had lost a leg for no reason I could ascertain. Perhaps it had given up out of despair. The small throw before the door was unhappy from many washings. It bore a few mud stains that shouted constant reminders of my own carelessness. The umbrella stand looked forlorn with only the one navy-blue umbrella to keep it company. A doorway to a small kitchen, once a warm and inviting place full of light and smells and cheery words, broke the expanse of wall behind the couch. Adjacent, the already-mentioned front door and beside it, the entry into the bedroom – which stood about six feet to the right of the front window. There was a TV that saw altogether too much use. I – we – had never been able to afford cable – forget Netflix: this was a TV, not a glorified computer monitor – and the images on Channel 2 looked fuzzy, but I – not we – found it a welcome electronic mental pabulum that filled my mind and crowded out the memories. I plodded to the bedroom, scuffing my thin leather soles on the floor, there to take up the never-ending inventorying once again. A single glance took it all in. Walls that used to be a light grey, but now were the colour of dust, the colour of soaked-in memories, enclosed me. Faded wallpaper clothed the south wall, showing a few bubbles and more signs of age: water stains in one corner and peeling edges where the ancient glue had released its hold. I remembered going to the showroom and picking out the paper with my new wife. I had wanted wild: a dozen colours 30
