The wind blowing through Central Park today is chilly, making me almost put my jacket on. When the wind stops blowing I start to warm up once again. Frowning I absently curse the wind under my breath. Most of my focus is on the screen of the tablet computer in front of me; my fingers tap along the keys of an attachable keyboard. A wire comes from the side of the tablet computer towards me, splitting said wire end in an earbud on each split. The black backpack propped against the edge of the table bench matches the black cat beanie upon my head.
I'm sitting at a picnic table in a semi-secluded area of Central Park surrounded by (climbable looking) trees and with a little pond nearby. Close enough that someone can still hear the chatter of other people but far enough from the beaten path to feel a bit isolated. The leaves of the trees are the reds, oranges, golds, and browns that come with fall. While the pond is occasionally disturbed by the splashing of a frog or fish. It's peaceful among the otherwise constant noise of the city.
One foot is wrapped around the leg of the bench as is my usual. I stop typing to tap the nails of my right hand against the table in agitation. I can see the scene but the words necessary to describe it to someone are slow coming. It's one of the frustrations of a writer and something that never seems to change. I close my eyes laying my hands on my cheeks as I try to bring up the right words.
That's when I hear a small meow from my left. I open my eyes and turn my head to look, blonde hair falling over my shoulder with the movement. A pitch black cat with bright emerald eyes stares up at me. Its tail is curled over its front paws and it looks at me expectantly. I stare at it for a bit before taping on my tablet a couple times to stop my music. Pulling out my earbuds I place them on the keyboard before smiling at the cat.
"Well, hello there pretty kitty, ya need something," I ask reaching out a hand for it to sniff. It sniffs my hand delicately, not quite touching it's done sniffing my hand it meows at me again; one of the ears on my beanie twitches. Unhooking my leg from the leg of the bench I pat the now empty area.
"Come on up and I'll petcha." The cat sniffs but doesn't move to jump up. I exhale at the cat and start shifting to get up. "You better be lucky I was in need of a break," I inform the cat, "I'm trying to write a story that's being difficult to put into words." I get up and walk over to the cat. "Bloody thing would be nice to just let me write it," I grumble.
When I come over to the side of the table the cat moves away. I settle down hoping that the cat would come back over. It does. Tentatively I reach out to pet it. The first touch makes me freeze and narrow my eyes at the black feline. Not because I was testing to see if the cat would bolt. No. I paused because when I touched the cat I felt an energy signature that was above a typical animal. One someone could expect to feel from a person.
After a moment I rubbed my hand down the "cat's" back, "I don't know who you are, but just don't follow me home, alright?" The cat froze and its eyes widen with fear, ears starting to go back and back arching, but I just kept petting down its back. Several minutes passed like that before the cat seemed to come to a decision. It came closer to me, making it easier to pet, before slowly climbing into my lap. I let it, just continuing to pet the supposed feline. It was comforting and relaxing. I could organize my thoughts while occupying my hands.
Eventually, it starts to get dark and I need to go home to get some sleep before my next shift. I gently usher the cat out of my lap; he seems a bit disgruntled in the twilight, but it complies. I pack up my things quickly, brushing off stray leaves. Shouldering my pack I give the cat one more friendly pat on the head before heading off. If I have an extra pep in my step on the way back to my apartment no one is around to mention it. If my smiles come more easily during my next shift only the kids I work with know me enough to mention it.