(Part 1) (Art is Mine --- The story was made by my sister!) “Peaches!” His arms were a little too long, knees a little too wobbly. His hands were big slender things, with cold pink fingertips, blood red rubbed knuckles. He had big fluffy dirt gold colored hair, with deep brown eyes. Not deep in the sense of color, but deep in the sense that you didn’t want to look into them for too long. The longer she looked into them the more they looked black, she could see herself in them and that made her squirm. He wore faded brown pants that were just a little too short, cream colored socks peeking out from yellow shoes. A loose white shirt hung from his wiry frame, paired with a faded salmon pink bomber jacket. “Come now Peaches. Let go.” She took his hand and led him along. His eyes bore into her back, face unchanging. Peaches used to frighten her. It wasn’t that she had felt unsafe, he was just rather cold, both literally and figuratively. He had appeared one day, sitting on the couch, her bright orange tabby rubbing against his slender legs. She looked at him, and he looked at her. She didn’t call the police like one might think a single woman living alone would do, instead she thought she was losing her mind. She went on about her day, trying her best to pretend she couldn't see him following her like a stray dog begging for food. On the second day she called her friend, who thought himself to be a ghost whisperer, or whatever it was called. “Oh I see him alright,” he said, circling him, taking him in. He followed with his eyes, face rather unchanged besides the tired look he tended to get around four in the afternoon (he often tended to slightly mirror how she was feeling on the inside which was really the only unsettling thing about him). “Well what is he?” “Not a ghost, that's for sure. I don’t think he’s a demon either. Maybe he’s your guardian angel or something.” “Well I would most certainly hope not,” she said, slightly distressed, twisting the ends of her blouse. On the fifth day she called her mother. “Honey, are you sure you’re sleeping alright? “Of course, why would you ask that?” “Well you keep going on about this man, but all I see is this rather cute little puppy. Who’s a good boy huh,” her mother cooed at him, petting her hair and rubbing his ears as he sat hunched over on the couch. He looked up at her, raised eyebrows and a slightly tilted head as if asking a question. And for a slight second she saw him as her mother did, a little golden doodle who quite honestly looked rather bored. She turned away from him then, not standing to see him Everynight he watched her sleep, or that’s what she assumed he did. Each night there he would be, sitting at the foot of the bed, or standing in the doorway. Head rested on the door frame, looking at her, eyes half closed, no emotion in them. Sometimes she’d close the door in his face, which he didn’t protest to. Or she’d get up and face him the other direction. Though one morning she walked into the living room and there he was, sleeping on the couch. He looked as though he had fallen asleep sitting up, feet on the floor, his upper body slumped over. A stream of light had fallen over his face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, breathing softly. She crouched on the floor in front of him and looked on in awe, before he slowly opened his eyes, looked a bit surprised, sat up and rubbed the sleep from his empty eyes. On day eight she learned her best friend saw him as a cat. Day 27 her dad didn’t see him at all. Day 29 her co-worker could actually see him as she did. “Oh yeah, I have one too,” she said, as she sipped her coffee from across the table. “Really!? Then where is he?” “Oh I usually leave him at home. He’s been with me for awhile, and I’ve learned if I ask him something nicely he’ll do it. Like staying at home,” she explained, as if they were having a totally normal conversation. She looked back at him, playing on the couch with the bright orange tabby. He looked up at her, his eyes made her feel violated, she rather hated them. On day 46 she learned that he rather liked the song This Side of Paradise by Coyote Theory . She was chopping carrots in the kitchen, a pot of soup on the stove, the music playing in the background. He caught in out of the corner of her eye, head swaying back and forth in time to the song, he yawned a small whimpering sound really, foot tapping on the floor. ---
(Part 2) “Do you like this song?” He looked up at her, blinked, showing no real sign he even understood her. “Can you nod if you like it? Because if you don’t I have no problem playing something else,” she said, wiping her orange stained fingers in a kitchen rag. He stared at her for a minute, then nodded, it was a small gesture but noticeable all the same. “Come dance with me then.” She pulled him up from his chair, placing his hands on her hips, wrapping her arms around his neck. “See? Just like this.” They swayed back and forth, the whole time he looked at her, tiredness in the small lines around his eyes, she’d like to think they were laugh lines but he never laughed. They danced like this for she’ll never know how long until she stopped, wrapping him tightly in her arms, asking to be held. They stood that way, half chopped carrots on the counter, soup spilling over the pot burning on the stove. She later learned he was rather fond of love songs in general. Most of all appreciating Al Green, as some mornings he’d wake her up, tug at her sleeve until she’d follow him into the living room, point at her record of Al Green’s Greatest Hits and wait for her to put it on. One day she walked in on him putting it on himself, she had started to grow tired of that album, she told herself she’d buy him better music. On day 63 she gave him peach tea, which doesn’t sound very important to most, but it was a rather big day for the both of them. She’d tried to give him food and drink before to little luck. He’d pick at it, maybe take a few bites out of what she assumed to be politeness, before choosing he didn’t like it and pushing it away from himself. Quite honestly he seemed to do just fine without food so she usually chose not to pick a fight over it. But on that particular day, she has made peach iced tea, black tea with large sweet peach slices brewed in the warm fall sun. --- (Comment if you want Part 3)
