Meet Cute

Meet Cute
By Eli Sugarman
I first met him outside, when I was smoking a cigarette. He came right up to me. He kept coming back, so I started feeding him. Day after day, little bits of smoked turkey. He wanted to come inside, so I let him in, and he nuzzled up against my ankles, leaving strands of hair on my pant legs. He purred, and I fell in love with him. He didn’t seem to want to leave. I guess I have a cat now, I thought.
I picked up everything you need for a cat—litter box, dry food, toys, and treats. All that was left was to come up with a name. “What's your name?” I said, looking him in the eyes. He didn’t answer, though he seemed to understand me.
When he wanted to go outside, I let him out, and he always came back home. He curled up on my lap while I watched TV, so soft and warm. After a few weeks, I finally got around to taking him to the vet. “He’s in good shape,” the vet said.
I was glad. “How old is he?”
The vet couldn’t say.
“How long will he live?”
The vet couldn’t answer that either. She told me that a healthy cat can sometimes live over twenty years. Twenty years, I thought, looking at my cat. We could grow old together. On the ride home from the vet’s office, he sat in the passenger seat. I glanced away from the road, and he was looking right at me.
“You wanted to know how old I am,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Though, it’s not very important. I'll love you no matter what.” “That's an empty promise,” he said. “You barely know me.”
“I guess so. What's your name?”
“I've had many names. None of them have meant very much to me. One is as good as another.”
I nodded. “I'm still thinking about what I should call you. It might not matter to you, but it does to me.”
“Whatever,” he said.
Time seemed to slow as we drove through a school zone. I didn’t want to pry, but I had to ask him, “Why haven’t you spoken to me before? Why now?”
“Language, ah.” He yawned. “This is a secret I've kept for twenty-eight years. I guess it’s just something I had to get off my chest.”
“You’re that old?” I said. “Sorry,” I added, quickly. “I didn't mean that.”
“It’s alright.”
“It’s just, we’re the same age.”
“I know. It’s not so hard to tell.”
“Oh,” I said. Secretly, I had hoped I looked a bit younger.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I don't see much of a point in talking. In my experience, being honest with people only seems to scare them away.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
He was quiet for a while, then he said, “Maybe things will be different this time.” “Things didn’t end well with your last owner?
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“I get that,” I said, “I've had relationships end poorly too. It doesn’t make you a bad person, I mean, is there really a good way for a relationship to end?”
He was quiet again as I parked the car in front of my place. Then he said, “I hope this won’t change things between us.”
“Of course not,” I answered, and stroked his little head. That night, he cuddled up against me while we fell asleep. I let him outside in the morning, and he never returned. I kept waiting for him to come back; I even left bits of smoked turkey outside where we used to meet, but he never showed. He probably had other owners, even when we were together. I replayed things over and over in my head, wondering where I went wrong. I thought we had something special. But there’s only so much guesswork you can do. At some point you just have to let it go, and move on, though I think some people are better at that than others. Some people are better at leaving, and other people are better at getting left behind.