Morning finds you like usual. Your internal clock wakes you before your alarm goes off. Soft morning light is streaming in from an unfamiliar window and it takes a second for you to place yourself in your son's room. Then another moment to remember why you are in your son's room. And then another to remember your strange guest of yesterday.
You climb to your feet with a soft groan of aching muscles made stiff by the sedentary nature of sleep. After gathering up your clothes from yesterday, you slip out into the hall quietly, but realize that your sneaky nature is a moot point as your bedroom door stands wide open. You are still careful when you enter, habit from years of trading pranks with your son, but again it's wasted effort as your room is empty. There was a concerted effort to remake the bed just as he had probably found it when he retired last night, with only a few subtle differences in style. You smile softly and correct those differences and run a hand along the smoothed blankets. Cold. He must have left fairly early.
A small pile of money, crumpled bills and coins sit on your otherwise clear nightstand along with a small white note. You pick it up and read the word "rent" scrawled out on it in red ink. You frown a bit. Guests do not need to pay 'rent' in your house.
You quickly find and don a quick outfit for the morning, some shorts and a t-shirt, before you collect the money in your hand, smoothing out the bills and unconsciously sorting the coins by denomination. Hopefully you can return this before he leaves. Surely he needs it more than you do.
But as much as you hope, your other prediction proves true when you reach the kitchen downstairs and don't see your guest anywhere. He left already. And without saying good morning or good bye. How rude.
You pull out an empty jar from your spice cabinet and drop the rent into it, holding onto it for a later purpose, whatever that may be.
You go about your morning routine; coffee, newspaper, sudoku (with no sign of your guest, you suppose he really did leave) before you return upstairs to complete your morning ablutions. Shower, shave, style, and an actual outfit for the day. Even though you don't go into the office as often as you used to with the modernization of home offices, you still feel much more productive in slacks and a button down shirt.
And speaking of work, it is just about time to call into the office and check out how everything is going. Your study is a small room, no larger than one of your old cubicles. It is full of papers, notebooks, a copy/fax/printer machine, a computer, and a phone. It's everything you need to keep track of your little part of the Crocker Corp. While the computer boots up you dial out to your team lead and get the updates. You bounce your project ideas off to him and then ask him to pass on to everyone there to have a great day. You spend the next several hours going through emails and filling out paperwork as per your usual work day. Once again you finish what you have to do early, just in time for lunch.
You go to the kitchen to make a sandwich. But when you go to the refrigerator to grab your sandwich meats and cheeses, you notice some is missing. And by some, you mean a large portion. Glancing over at the loaf of bread you were working on, proves the same state. You are surprised but also glad that he foraged for himself. You make your sandwich and enjoy it with a tall glass of milk. You have several errands that you need to run today, including a modified grocery list.
At the store you find yourself getting more apple juice to replace the portion that you shared last night. And more sandwich making supplies. Then as you are passing the seafood department you see a sale. You pick up a package of fresh tilapia and then detour through the store as a dinner idea puts itself together. Flour tortillas, cilantro, lettuce, limes, avocado, a small onion, a garlic clove, heirloom tomatoes, and some sour cream.
When you get home there is enough time to put away all of the collected groceries, to run a vacuum over the floor in the living room, picking up the small pile of hair that apparently came out with the brushings. Not nearly as bad as a real cat, according to the complaints of your cat-owning coworkers, but the comparison is amusing, and one that you will be keeping to yourself.
And then it is time for your afternoon pipe. You picked up the habit when you were much younger, when you asked your father if you could join him as he smoked his own pipe. It was a way to connect to your father at the time, pushing through the initial coughing and bad taste until you found a perfect combination that you enjoyed. You haven't varied much from that combination over the years, though you will try the occasional new brand as you see them in the store. But you'll always remember your father with his pipe sitting on the porch.
You light your pipe with a couple gentle puffs and then settle on your porch in the warm golden light that pours over your calm quaint neighborhood. You look down the street at all the tidy yards and well kept house fronts. You hear the happy screams of children far off and hidden by privacy screens and fences that surround your neighbor's backyards. You wonder slightly if your neighbors keep the inside of their houses as neat and tidy as you do, give or take the messes that children can make. Your son always had a prank or a project that would clutter up and sprawl out from whatever work place he had taken up while you constantly battled on the front lines to keep some quiet order. You wonder if your neighbors are as vigilant with their own or if they just hide their junk behind the pretty veneer of their houses. As you let out a long breath, you imagine the thought being blown away with the smoke and the landscape of your neighborhood becomes its usual self again.
Well almost.
You are pleasantly surprised by the sight of Dave walking down the sidewalk again. This time the cigarette hanging from his lips isn't lit. He bounds right up your porch and leans against the post just like he had yesterday.
"Hey old man, I need a light."
You dutifully slip the matchbook out of your shirt pocket and then with one hand you open it up, bend a match out, close it, bend the match down to the strip and then flick your thumb to light it. You can tell he's impressed by the high arching eyebrow peeking over his shades. But otherwise he just calmly leans over to dip his cigarette tip into the fire, puffing gently to light it. As soon as he leans back, you wave your match out and finally use both hands to rip the used match out before tucking the rest of the book back into your pocket.
It's again a companionable silence between the two of you as you smoke your respective sources of tobacco. It's quite comforting to share the experience with someone. Your son never picked up the habit for which you are slightly glad of. The health concerns outweigh the nostalgic concept of passing it onto your son. Cigarettes aren't a healthy option either but you have no leg to stand on unless you want to be called out as a hypocrite.
He finishes his cigarette and crushes the stub out in the flower pot again before announcing, "I'm gonna go take a shower now."
You nod and he lets himself into your house. "Don't forget to take off your shoes." You hear the thumps of his converses hitting the floor loosely just as the door closes. You finish your smoke and tamp out your pipe and head in yourself. You hear the water running up the pipes to the shower as you climb the stairs. You find another old pair of shorts from your son's drawers, a fresh shirt, and another pair of boxers. You fold them up and then leave them in a neat pile by the bathroom door. Then you go to the kitchen to get dinner started.
You pull out all of the ingredients and quickly chop them up as necessary before getting out the pan and drizzling olive oil on it. The onion and garlic are sauteed in the skillet first until their aromas fill the kitchen. The tilapia fillets are placed and cooked until the flesh starts to flake. The tomatoes, cilantro, and lime juice are added next and again sauteed until soft. Then you take a spoon and break up the fish, mixing everything together before adding a bit of salt and pepper to your taste.
You are setting that aside and turning to heat up the tortillas when you hear from upstairs, "Hey old ma- oh, nevermind!" and you assume that he found the new clothes. With the tortillas warming, you start shredding the lettuce and setting out the plates. You are pouring a glass of apple juice when Dave arrives.
"So what we having tonight, old man?"
"Tilapia tacos."
"Fish tacos?" Dave repeats with a tilt of his head. "As delicious a delicacy as they can be, I'm normally more of a corn dog fan, but I'm sure your fish tacos are delicious, old man."
You have a feeling that the smirk that accompanies his words are implying something more than you are catching onto. Though you cannot possibly conceive of anything that can construed from tilapia tacos. Or corn dogs for that matter. He catches your frown and just shakes his head as he helps you carry all of the dishes to the other room. As it is a meal that you fix as you eat, there is a bit more than last night.
There is another quick bowing of his head before he is constructing his first taco. Yours comes out a little neater than his and it's noticeable when you both pick them up at the same time and most of his ends up back on the plate. You manage to eat yours with a little more couth.
"Oh my god," he exclaims after he swallows a large mouthful. "These are delicious." You take the accompanying (and somewhat inappropriate) sounds he makes as high praise.
At the end of the second taco he's pretty much picking up pieces straight off the plate with his fingers. You excuse yourself with a laugh to dash to the kitchen to grab a handful of napkins and a fork which you subtly slip next to his plate.
He ignores the fork in favor of the using the napkins to clean up the mess that has managed to drip down his forearms. "So I heard this song on the radio today. I don't know what station it was on because it wasn't really like anything else I've heard before. I thought it was something old timey but then it has this modern beat to it like it was trying to be electronic or dub, but it still wasn't quite what's on the circuit. I thought I knew what the old style was but then I couldn't remember the word like my brain redacted it so very helpfully because classified information, yo. But eventually my mind decided I had high enough clearance and reminded me that I took swing classes back when I was a tiny brat and forced to. So combine swing music with electro and low and behold there is such a thing as electroswing. I looked it up and everything. It's some good shit. I think even you would appreciate it, old man."
"Electroswing, huh? Sounds interesting."
"I'll help you pull it up on your computer."
"Oh, but my computer isn't that spectacular. I use it only for work not much else. But-"
"We need to get ya into the modern day and age, old man."
"But I'm sure you can find a sample or two of it on my smart phone."
"Oh shit, you are tech savvy. Well, partially. But yeah that's cool I'll get you some jams. Maybe while you-" He grabs his next newly made taco, better constructed than previously as he learns the best way to do so, and shoves it into his mouth to stop what ever line he was about to say. The blush on his cheeks has you intrigued. But again you don't comment on it.
You don't comment on a lot of it. You think because you are afraid you'll startle him and scare him away and for some reason you really don't want to do that. He's pushy and rude and has a bit of a foul mouth (not that you haven't caught your son saying worse), but at the same time you are sure he is a stray of some sort and if you can offer him a safe shelter, so be it. A handful of clothes and a couple of dinners aren't that much, especially on a budget like yours. It is very much worth it.
He polishes off two more tacos and uses up the last of the tortillas. He then continues to dig into the excess of the tilapia mix. "So are you going to feed me fish every night? 'Cause you know cats eat other things besides fish. I mean, I like fish, but I'm a big cat. I eat birds and wildebeest and giraffes too." The criticism is deadpanned so you almost take him seriously. Until you think through what examples he gave you.
"Honestly I never mean anything by it, Dave," you apologize, watching his ears twitch up at his name. "I'll see what I can do to import some antelope steaks. I haven't had some of those in forever."
His jaw drops as he apparently didn't expect the sass thrown back at him with the same sauve that he delivered it. When he manages to close his mouth, a grin creeps onto it and his shoulder bounces lightly with the hint of laughter.
He finishes off the food and helps carry the plates back into the kitchen. Once again he helps dry the dishes and even assists with putting away the dishes. When the two of you are finished, he moves towards the living room first.
"Hey old man, still got that brush laying around?"
"Of course."
"Then..." Dave turns away from you so you can see his face. "Brush my tail for me, will ya? I can get the tip all done up until it's feels as silky and nice as cloud nine and even the most pampered diva would be jealous of my lack of split ends and voluminous swish, but the base of it is a bit harder to reach being attached to my backside and all. Would be much easier if I could detach it and clip it back on like all the little kiddies who mean me on the street believe and try to test with their tiny grubby little hands. Some of those buggers tug hard too."
"Yes, I will brush you if you wish."
"Sweet. Grab your phone and the brush and I'll go get settled." You obey and wander off to find the two requested times. When you get back he's not quite as tightly curled up on the couch with the television on and playing the news already. You carefully sit down next to him and seconds later his tail has flopped into your lap. He snatches the phone out of your hand and is clicking away at the options, supposedly looking up that electroswing that he mentioned during dinner.
You gently run your hand along his tail and admire its texture. It's softer than you imagined it to be. It is a luxurious white cloud that anyone would be jealous of, including those divas he mentioned. Starting fairly near the tip you run the brush down and all the way out, gingerly getting uses to how his fur passes through the bristles. You slowly work your way up, brushing in sections until each are as silky smooth and free of knots as the last. You are especially careful with any knots you do find, usually in the deeper sections of his tail. But except for the occasional twitch of his ears back against his head, he doesn't seem to argue against your ministrations.
He mutes the television every once in a while to play a song that he finds and you find that you do actually enjoy what he calls electroswing. There are particular artists that you enjoy over others, but the whole genre is appealing.
He turns in his seat to face away from you and to offer a better angle for you to get the base of his tail. The knots and brushings get a little rougher here as he apparently didn't cover this part during last night's groomings. He gets twitchier too, but not always in pain based on the direction his ears go in. You catch almost a subsonic vibration coming from him and wonder if you are really truly hearing the beginnings of a purr.
As you work closer and closer to the base, an odd phenomenon starts to occur. And you are not sure how much Dave is actually aware of the fact that he is slowly tipping forward and raising his hips towards you. You can no longer excuse it as giving you better access to his tail as it is starting to hinder your reach. But he's almost tipped all the way forward with his backside up in the air when you finally pull the brush away, unable to do more, and cough lightly.
He of course startles and scrambles against the couch trying to right himself quickly and remove his posterior from your line of sight. "Shit! Sorry! Elevator butt. Or at least that's what the internet calls it as they tape thousands of cats being afflicted by butt scratches and post them to youtube for the lawls and likes. And by afflicted I mean that they really enjoy it and I guess I really enjoy it too and wow yeah that was hella embarrassing and probably why I haven't let anyone do that in a very long time not since..." he trails off, looking down at the ground, the blush spots still high on his dark cheeks. But you also notice that the shadows under his eyes aren't as dark as before, but they still have a long time until fully recovered.
"It's alright. It just made it harder to continue. Would you like any more tonight?" you offer softly, not embarrassed at all, especially as you connect the behavior to an automatic response.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks though. It already feels better." He playfully flicks his tail in the air in front of the two of you, schooling those rough emotions you caught a glimpse of behind a mask of a soft smirk. "I'ma call it quits early tonight though." He stretches and yawns, arching his back almost all the way to the back of the couch, his taut stomach showing off where the short shirt has pulled up. But then he relaxes back down with a sigh and flashes you a real smile and at his distance you catch sight of his sharper than usual teeth. Then he's bouncing away and waving at you from the bottom of the steps. "Night, old man."
"Sleep well, Dave," you call after him before turning back to the news. They are beginning the weather forecast so you sit through that before retiring yourself to John's room for the night.