#The cat bureau is such a silly concept

[illuxtre]

I rewatched the cat returns last week (I watched it once for the first time last year) and it's so funny that it became one of my absolute favorite ghibli movies for no reason

[gunmetaltesla]

|| I Think You’ll Understand ||

The day starts like the previous ten have, with me waking up at around eleven-like a lazy, posh house cat content to satisfy nothing but her own urges-to the cold, bright light of a winter sun streaming through the window across from my bed. I squint against the light and begrudge wakefulness, taking me away from the pleasant dreamscape free of taunts and jibes and blessedly, tantalizingly replete of stolen kisses in the stacks of the library after hours, foggy lunchtime conversations on the front steps, and breathy laughter over textbooks and notes in an otherwise quiet dormitory (the window of which articulates just how long ago we should've gone to bed). Shaking my head free of these images, lest they occupy my entire day. I'm no doubt expected to socialize with the endless stream of people that visit this time of year-"come-a-callin'", as our wonderfully Scottish maid Trudy would say, clucking around my room like an industrious hen once she's heard signs of life-but I can't seem to force my warm feet to hit chilly floorboard. Instead, I content myself with a bit of a lounge. She'll no doubt come to inspect what she expects to be my luxuriating corpse-finally giving into the boring, torturous monotony of the holidays-but for now, I'm just fine burrowing under the down blankets for a minute and surveying my kingdom.

I can't help but think you'd like my room. Without even knowing you all that well, and thus possessing a similarly foreign quality myself for you, I think you would look around the space and tell me, in that calm, warm tone of yours, that it suits me. The combination of royal blue painted and bare brick walls-my mother, after all, a huge proponent of recognizing and embracing the infrastructural brilliance of an old house-dark hardwood floors, worn Turkish rug and cozy bed awash in creams, ivories, and greys. Books, books, books, on every available surface. And two floor-to-ceiling casement windows that overlook the back garden in which I can hear my parents good-naturedly bickering over, I think, turnips. It's quiet, warm, and domestic. Not typically words associated with me-quite the opposite in fact-but still fitting in this scene. I've just stretched from fingertips to toes when there's an alert noise from my phone where it sits on a black lacquer bureau opposite my bed. I get up on all fours, still burritoed in blankets, to see if I can read the screen. And I can just make out a shape that I think, or rather hope, forms your name. I'm tumbling out of bed, tangled legs betraying me and causing an undignified thump and sprawl onto the floor. I right myself and pick up my phone, my face already forming the smile that has become characteristic when talking to you.

Morning. I heard this song this morning when I was helping my mom make breakfast, and I thought of you. I think you'll like it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MH-UmYkXiM

I immediately switch my phone to Bluetooth, and the song's plucky, but somehow smooth and wild, guitar comes strumming through the speakers I've stationed throughout the room. That's another thing I think you'd like-you seem like the kind of person that would appreciate good audio.

I do like it, I reply once the video ends, a big smile across my face and a dreamy look in my eyes, thank you for sending it to me.

You're welcome. Any plans tonight?

Oh. That's right, I think with a groan as I walk back over to my bed-phone in hand-and burrow back beneath the blankets in retreat. Tonight is New Year's Eve.

No, but that doesn't mean I won't be do anything.

I don't look happy. Well, truthfully you wouldn't know, but the wording of that text looks somehow "off". After nearly incessant conversation over the break, you've become quiet adept and the tone and meter of my text conversation. Oddly enough, you've never met anyone else-apart from you-that texts how they speak. You shouldn't have been surprised, given all my other quirks. The thought of it still makes you smile.

Trapped in family commitments?

A long time before the dreaded typing ellipsis and then ping.

Something like that. My sister, convinced that I need to let loose-I think she forgets that I'm ten years her junior, the fruitcake-stormed into my room two days ago and all but demanded that I get secretly drunk with her at the party tonight.

You have no idea how to respond to this, because you're feeling a cocktail of sensations yourself. Curiosity, as to how I might be different under the influence. Surprise at the fact that I might indulge in the first place. Titillation-yep, I said it-at the idea of a less rigid, weaker-walled me. And jealousy, which catches you by surprise, when you remember the last of the New Year's traditions. It's then that you also realize that you never asked if I…you don't know if I'm attached. You aren't, but you suddenly find a desperate desire within yourself to know if I am or why I'm not or whether I'd like to be. Another ping.

I'd rather be spending time with you.

You smile at the phone, cradling it in both hands like a treasure. You decide to have a little fun and get your answers at the same time.

So…drinking with your sister at a family get-together. Sounds like a good time. No plans otherwise? No budding romance to kindle as the fire crackles? No one to meet under the mistletoe?

That's Christmas.

I know, you goober. I just meant…nevermind.

I will not be kissing anyone as the bell tolls, if that's what you're asking.

You can practically hear my eyes rolling at the concept, and that makes you chuckle. You're typing out a witty retort when your younger sister walks in.

"So, who is this guy? Your "friend from school". You've been glued to that phone since you got home."

"I never said it was a guy." It's out of your mouth-which is now hanging open in surprise at yourself-before you can stop it. A bullet, speeding toward fragile flesh.

"Oh. Okay. Cool. Mom says lunch is ready." And that was it. You'd expected further questions, deeper investigation, but nothing. Casual interest. Hmm. Maybe it wouldn't…ping.

What about you?

You reply, detailing your own plans of meeting up at a friend's house for a party of your old schoolmates. How everyone is getting all dressed up like it's some swanky affair. There's an ellipsis…then nothing…then another ellipsis…then nothing again.

You're now being summoned to the kitchen in earnest by shouting siblings, so you leave your phone on the bed. All through lunch, you catch yourself straining for any digital noise coming from your bedroom. You must have made a face, because your sister catches you listening and says, "I'm sure she'll text you back."

"Who?" ask you mother and brother simultaneously.

"Her friend from school" is all your sister answers. Something like a secret builds up between you, but it's fond and loving and conspiratorial in the way that only sisters share, so you let it slide. Besides, she's always seen more than she lets on. She's an observant one, your little sister. You're clearing the table with your second brother when you hear it. The ping.

"Told you", comes teasingly from the kitchen. You hand off your portion of the dishes and dash to your room, shutting the door behind you. Three texts, in rapid fire, arrived.

I'd love to see what you're wearing. I'm sure you'll look beautiful all dressed up. Not that you wouldn't if you were dressed casual. I'm sure you would. Might. Could. Do. I'm dressing up, too, if you were curious. It seems the occasion commands it.

You chuckle, low and soft, and carefully type out your response, hitting send before your brain can think better of it.

Well then. If I show you mine, will you show me yours?

That's the closest thing either of us have said that's close to flirting. You're not even sure if it is-if that's what you meant it to be. Playful, yes. Obviously. But flirtatious? Maybe. You might have made a mistake, but only time-and texts-will tell.

Suddenly the party-and the preparation for it-had higher stakes. You felt the delicious tension of attraction purr in your chest, the heated need for physical touch. You've always experienced this, even before sexual activity was even a possibility. You've always craved contact from people, but sexual awakening had only heightened it. And now that you're…well let's just say you need to do something. Be with people. Feel the push and pull of flirtation, the rush of kissing, the release of anything that comes afterward. You want to look your best, but for whom? It's not as if…well. Time to plan.

Leave it to you to find the perfect dress at the very last moment. You were rummaging through your mother's closet, and there it was-a white gold sequined mini number with ¾ sleeves and a low-dipping back. All you needed now was-yes! A pair of nude heels left over from a formal at your old school. You laid everything out and, satisfied with the outfit, set about getting ready for the night.

You kept glancing at your phone throughout the process, having not heard from me in several hours. You figured I was deep into the entertaining-I'd told you about how many different "parties" and gatherings my family holds over the holiday season (that's what I get for a politically active mother and socially and philanthropically active father)-so you didn't precisely question the silence. You didn't like it, either, but that's another issue. You're just finishing up your makeup-simple and bronzy, just your style-when a text tone interrupts your thoughts.

I don't want to show you.

You frown a little, gold eyeliner still dangling from your hand, and reply with a simple ?

"Mine". I don't want to show you. You'll think it's silly.

I won't.

You're sure.

Yes.

And you were. But you waited…and you laughed a little when you realized that I was following your text to the letter and waiting until you'd shown me your getup before revealing my own.

Give me a minute-I'm just finishing up.

A few minutes later, satisfied with your appearance via a thorough check in the full-length mirror of your room, you managed a shot.

You look…

You feared the worst. That somehow what looked nice, and festive as hell, in your head didn't actually translate aloud.

You look like the first sparkler I ever held.

And somehow, without knowing me in childhood-really without knowing me now-you knew that was a high compliment and blushed at its sight.

Thank you. That's…I know that's a very nice thing to say. But enough about me…

And you waited…and waited…and waited…till finally a ping. And all you saw was a brilliance of sparkling emerald green, miles of pale skin, and a small, knowing smirk beneath a quizzical brow.

I felt foolish, posing like I was. I'd staged everything. Hell, if I commit to something, I do so to the fullest. I'd grabbed a tripod from my mother's home studio, set on the timer, and taken practice shots. I wanted it…I needed it to look well. I wanted to impress you, even if I didn't quite know why. Still, I did it. And I managed to get a shot I felt alright about-the rest I hated. It was now or never, and so I sent the thing before I could fake an excuse and bluster some lie of it not turning out.

It's a costume party.

I hit the send arrow and waited, the wig cap feeling tighter and hotter than it had moments ago, the silky fabric rough on my anxious skin. The sequins, which sparkled and winked playfully like they were meant to, instead cast glares and were just too bright for me. I'd made a horrible mistake. I'd gone too far. Who wants to go to this stupid…who should celebrate this useless…oh what's the point! I was reaching to yank off the wig and tell Trudy to tell my family I was sick when my phone went off.

Holy shit! You look just like her. Please tell me there's no Gene Kelly waiting for you at the party.

I grinned ear to ear, the angry red of my skin transforming into a blush of flattery. Not only did you know who the costume was meant to represent-I mean for God's sake I'd spent a week making it (Trudy helping with the sequins)-but you also told me…you implied that I…how I could ever be as appealing as Cyd Charisse is beyond me.

No. Nor is there a scar-pocked man thrusting a diamond cuff beneath my snout to lure me away…

Well you look incredible.

So do you. I wish…well, Happy New Year!

Talk to you soon.

And that was all it had been. Nothing out of the ordinary, other than a video of me and a young woman you assumed was my sister, singing "Honky Tonk Woman" into the camera at the tops of our lungs, drunkenly and off-key enough to make you nearly splutter coffee all over your book when it arrived.

We'd gone back to normal conversation after that. You never told me what happened to you when you rang in the new year, but it wasn't out of deception.

It was a face-to-face conversation, and you were only a couple of hours away.

Are you on the train yet? You smiled.

Impatient to see me?

Yes.

Good.

Good. Talk to you soon.

The emphatic tone of that one-word reply was all the hope you needed. Maybe, if you were lucky, I'd had a similarly transformative-or at least eye-opening experience-myself over the holidays. You wondered if you'd made any appearance in my dreams the way yours had been flecked with green sequins and set on vivid soundstages, awash in color and life and music.

The train ride itself had been relatively uneventful. You listened to the playlist we'd made together-a collaboration of such delightful weirdness that it actually made a cohesive unit of 75 tracks-and chatted with friends who join the growing throng of co-eds as the vehicle neared its academic destination. And as the train slowed, you sat up straight-afflicted with a sudden doubt. What if it was in your head? What if it was good on paper-or on screen, I guess-but had nothing, no juice, in real-time?

Well. There was one way to find out.

The train came to a stop, and students began flooding the white landscape like a school of fish breaking rank. You, hating the hustle and bump of the crowd, waited on the train for a few minutes until the rush died down. And when you got off the train, face grimacing at the sudden gust of ice-cold wind, you saw a familiar form walking toward you-curls whipping around an eager, pale face that sported a brilliant, elated grin.

We met each other breathlessly, nervous exhales dancing and mingling in a rapidly cooling fog between us.

"Hi", I managed a little weakly.

"Hi", you replied, thinking your face would split from its smile.

"How was the-"my question was interrupted by the perfectly-timed Flanagan, shouting at you to hustle to the fieldhouse for a team meeting.

You looked up at me-had I gotten taller in the three weeks of break? -and your smile faltered. It seemed to me, to us both, that you were on the verge of saying something. You settled instead for squeezing my hand-frigid because I wasn't wearing gloves beneath my black peacoat. The gesture was, no doubt, meant as a balm. As a silent apology or a physical ellipsis, promising further discussion. It was witnessed, however, by Flanagan.

"Quit dykin' around with the know-it-all and hustle."

You felt me go rigid right before I yanked my hand from yours, mumbled something about needing to check in at the stacks, turned on my heel and stalked away. You called after me, but I just jammed my headphones into my ears and sped up.

Fucking Flanagan. She'd made my life a nuisance since she came to school three years ago. How she'd managed to keep her grades up enough to remain here was a perpetual mystery, but it wasn't one I was too keen on solving. She wasn't worth the time.

Remember how I said that I was so used to jibes and insults that they barely even registered anymore? Well this one-it landed. Like a meteor.

I was used to it. That isn't a lie; I'd never been popular, and I did nothing to remedy that. But you…with your warm smile and easy conversation, strong presence and confident stride. Over the fall term you'd become the second year's golden girl-a star on the pitch and in the lab. You could do no wrong. Except, of course, if you were seen hanging around me. And I didn't want that for you. What to do-how to solve the problem and still get to see you (because I selfishly wanted that so badly I could hear it in my blood)-stomped around my brain for the next two days. Until Tuesday, when I knew I would see you again. You texted me several times later that day, and on Monday, but I never replied. Better to start distancing myself now than risk further…heartache? Is that really what it was? When did I become so…romantic?

I was just falling asleep on Monday night, dreading the awkwardness of the next day, when my phone went off with a text.

I don't know what else to say. Flanagan's a dick. Maybe Ms. Lee can help me out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4kI0dBvg-qw

The beginning of the song crooned through my phone's speakers, and I smiled. And then I laughed.

Maybe Tuesday wouldn't be so bad.

I saw you the next day, in a place other than the library. That had only happened twice-once at the end of the last term, and the other at the train station the day before winter term began. You were walking out of the dining hall, hair still damp and face still scrubbed red from your shower after morning practice. You looked so alive. Radiant with life and laughter and the vitality of the young. And you were arm in arm with a boy I vaguely recognized as a player for lacrosse team whose name I thought was Eli.

My gut went cold, but I was not ready for that. I wasn't prepared for the force of jealousy now coursing its way through my entire body, making my blood feel like boiling metal. My appetite had completely disappeared. I simply clenched my jaw and turned around toward the direction of my first class of the day. Middle English-something that normally held my full attention-but I could already tell my focus would not be on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

The classes came and went, my mind completely unfocused on notes or readings or conversational French. I barely lifted my pen to paper over the course of the day so that, by the time I plopped dejectedly down into my chair behind the desk at the library, I just wanted the day to be over and done. Fortunately, I had some things to occupy me for my shift-organizational tasks always comforted me. As I've said before, the system was my friend.

"Long time no see".

I closed my eyes against the joy I felt at your voice. Against the surge of relief at you coming to see me.

"Yes."

I didn't risk looking at you. There was no use in both of us knowing how deep my wounds had gone.

"I thought I saw you coming toward the dining hall this morning, but then…I waved, but you'd already turned around". Your voice sounded curious, apologetic, and concerned.

"Yes, well. I was almost there when I lost my appetite." I couldn't mask the venom that time.

The silence across the desk, coupled with a chill in the air you could almost feel, made me look up at you. And the expression in your face mirrored the one etched on my memory from finals week-which felt like a century from now-when you'd brought me coffee.

"Oh. Well, I just…I mean I thought…I kind of wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have time after your shift today? We could meet after dinner, or something, if you want and talk about some th- "

"We're late. Come on." From the wretched Eli, to whom I shot enough daggers with my eyes to make him blanch (in which I took monumental and petty satisfaction). That is, until he grabbed your hand and started tugging you in the direction of the study group.

I decided to be the bigger person and acquiesce.

"After dinner. Tonight."

"My rooms?" you offered, the hope and honesty in your voice making me nauseous with guilt at my behavior to the point that all I could manage was a nod in confirmation before you left the desk and joined the others.

Two hours later, my shift nearly finished but my relief arriving for hers early, I took a few extra minutes to return some of the more precious tomes by hand. And one, a text on marine anatomy, brought me within two shelves of your study group. Something like curiosity-morbid though it may have been-made me stay and lurk in the shadows between shelves, watching you among the other athletes. You weren't studying, you were relaxed back in your chair which was leaned on its rear legs as yours were propped up on the table around which you all sat. You were laughing at something someone had said, and my heart soared (as it always does) at the sound. Then, it increased at something Eli said and you leaned your forehead onto his shoulder as the two of you shook in laughter. I was suddenly desperate to be anywhere but where I was, stuck between the world I knew and the one to which I'd never belong. I was in such a panicked rush that the book I was returning to its place wobbled off its shelf and, with a very loud thunk, fell to the ground.

I froze where I was, white with mortification and fearing detection. Chanting to myself that I was invisible and the people around me were deaf, my peripheral vision took note of someone rising from the table to find out what caused the noise.

"Fancy meeting you here", you said with a little sarcasm but, still beneath it, your characteristic warmth. 

"I wasn't eavesdropping." Blurted, vomited right out of my mouth.

"No one said you were. You do, after all, work here." I heard rather than saw the smile in your voice.

"Yes. True. Well. I should be going."

In the time it had taken for our conversation to start and for me to desperately try to escape, two more people had gotten up from the table-no doubt to discover the identity of the mysterious interloper. My two least favorite people in the walking world.

"Oh, it's you" moaned Eli with a dramatic sigh and a dismissive whip of his hand.

"Shouldn't you be sitting at your little desk with Patricia Highsmith and Gertrude Stein?" growled Flanagan, her face already contorted with malice I hadn't earned…yet.

You braced for the impact of these insults on my behalf, stuck as you were between myself and the other two. You looked as if you were going to come to my defense, but I didn't give you the chance.

"Sadly, misses Highsmith and Stein aren't available. Maybe I should just have a chat with your dear, sweet, so very secret Megan instead?"

I still don't know what made me say it. I shouldn't open my mouth when I'm upset; it always gets me into the worst kinds of trouble. You know this-now. Then, though, I don't think you could've stopped me. No more than you could've anticipated or stopped Flanagan's open hand reaching past you to meet my face with such force that the class ring on it scratched my cheek enough to draw blood.

The air was dense with tension, silence, and surprise.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, heedless of the heaving Flanagan and the confused Eli. You even reached toward me, but I took a step back.

"Don't…she's socially radioactive", he said, his face forming a cruel sneer.

"I- "

"He's right', I said, righting myself, 'don't worry about it. I'm fine. I always am. It was…it's been nice knowing you" I managed a halfhearted shrug, but I could feel the tears and bile building in my throat.

You were speechless, and you looked like someone had struck you. Flanagan's chest was still heaving and her face was the color of a ripe raspberry. Eli was just leaning against the nearest shelves like a triumphant peacock.

"Talk to you soon", I said with a bitter laugh, the sound of it-and the reference in my words, and their sarcastic finality-made you flinch.

I walked past you, went to my desk to grab my things and practically ran from the library. My friends. My sanctum sanctorum, now reduced to rubble.

I made it to my rooms before I let one tear fall, but they didn't stop.

You didn't move from your spot between the shelves until the other two had left. Flanagan had muttered something about leaving something in the fieldhouse and stomped away; Eli's boyfriend Jacob had come to retrieve him. And you just stood there, dumb to everything except two things: one, that you'd watched me get hurt and done nothing (despite really wanting to) and two, that you didn't care whether I was radioactive-that you'd risk the poison if it meant getting to see me read Italian or look at me dressed like Cyd Charisse.

You finally moved and made it to dinner, eyes searching the hall for me all the while. I wasn't there.

You left the hall and went back to your rooms. The door was still open in invitation when you fell asleep.

You woke up in the middle of the night, suddenly like someone had disturbed you. The room was dark, your roommate Chloe's gentle snores the only sound. You were trying to figure out what had woken you when-

Ping. From two minutes ago. That's what had done it. A text from me. Just a link and four words.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBxAdoTOnuM I'm sorry. The steps.

You grabbed your overcoat and your purple beanie, jammed your headphones into your ears, and took off running into the night.

2:54

I couldn't believe I done it. My face scrunched up at my foolishness, my lovesick nonsense-the shit that only happens in stories-but winced at the tug I felt from the scratch on my cheek. I'd been standing here in the cold for fifteen minutes before I'd even sent the text, and now for ten as I waited on the steps. Late night snow was starting to fall.

I had almost-nearly-basically given up when I heard distant footsteps in the dark.

A form started to take shape. A girl. An athlete. A familiar purple beanie.

I thought I was going to faint.

You took full form, and slowed down as you came to the bottom of the steps. You didn't ascend, letting me dictate the terms.

"HI", you said breathlessly, your chest still heaving from your cross-campus sprint. Your coat was open, revealing your sleeping sweats beneath.

"Hi", I returned, a smile threatening at the corner of mouth at the fact that you'd come. And you'd come like that-as soon as you-

"I came as soon as I could. I was…I waited for you to come."

"I know."

"I left my door open."

"Chloe must've been so confused."

Spurred on by the casual tone of the conversation, you put one foot on the steps to come up, "Listen…."

I held up a hand to halt you.

"No. I…I'm sorry about earlier. I'm not good…I'm not good at people." I rolled my shoulders in awkwardness, but my hands remained in my pockets, making me look like an irritated penguin.

And you laughed. That glorious sound that felt like sun breaking through the clouds.

"It's okay that you're crap at people." You took two steps upwards. I didn't stop you.

"It is?"

"Yes", you said happily, taking three more steps. Only two left.

"Why is that? You heard Eli…I'm radioactive. You saw Flanagan-I'm…why is that okay?"

"Because it is. You're not good at other people. You just have to…" you took the final two steps, level with me and then the final leap.

You reached up, lightly touching one chilled tan hand to my cold pink cheek, you brought your face close to mine and I took a surprised breath. That was all the indication you needed.

You pressed your lips softly to mine, the contact sending sparks and ice and fire and honey all over, inside, atop my mouth. I gasped into your mouth, and you smiled against my lips.

"I just have to what?" I finally asked moments-or years or seconds or decades-later, my eyes still closed long after the kiss had ended.

"You just have to be good at me. And I have a distinct feeling', you said as you took my hand in yours and gave it a reassuring squeeze, 'that you're a natural."

We walked down the steps and across the dark campus, holding hands all the while. You stopped every once in a while to brush snow from my hair, and I paused to let you. We meandered down to the crew lake as the sun was breaking the horizon, and I watched it rise in your eyes and turn your hair burnished gold while you watched the warm peach light settle around my paleness like a blooming rose. We were sitting on the dock, freezing but unbothered by it, when my stomach rumbled.

"Breakfast?" you asked.

"Yes. I need to shower, though. Meet you there?"

"Definitely". We got up and walked back through campus, you escorting me to my dormitory's entrance like a gentleman. The chivalrous nature of this didn't escape me, just so you know. I know you're just as much a romantic sap as I am, and to this day I am grateful.

We kissed quickly and I left you. You stood outside the building, relishing this new day and its possibilities. You put your headphones on and hit the link again, starting the song over once more. As the chorus was arcing upwards, it dimmed to allow the text tone to come through.

Talk to you soon.

You smiled and walked in the direction of your rooms. You knew it was true. It was true now and always would be.

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