“I suppose all cats are on house arrest, then. Life is like a jail for cats,” I say, hanging my head in mock sadness.
She pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. His jailer is good to him. He gets three squares a day, plus an hour out of solitary for exercise. And here, I have cat exercise toys.”
“You are an excellent cat warden. But he’s not named Jailbird?”
“I called him that at first, but then one day I was listening to Bruce Springsteen—”
“I thought you only liked pop?”
“Hush. Bruce is like pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Have you ever met someone who doesn’t like pizza?”
“No. I can’t say I have.”
“Should I have named him Pizza, then?”
I laugh. “Not a bad name for a cat. Or Pepperoni. Anyway, how did Jailbird become Bruce?”
“So, I was listening to ‘I’m on Fire,’ and the cat actually sat on my chest. It was the first time he was borderline affectionate with me. I briefly wondered if he was trying to suffocate me, but then I thought maybe he just liked Bruce. So, I tested out the name—I called him Bruce, and he gave the faintest lift of his chin.”
“Ah, a clear sign.”
“Exactly. So I named him Bruce.”
“My incarcerated cat is named Queen Of Tofu.”
She shoots me an appreciative look. “Excellent name. You must send me a photo.”
“I believe that can be arranged,” I say, thinking of her Instagram account.
We return to our late-night meal as Bruce flops at Bryn’s feet, rolling to his side and showing off his dark-striped belly.
When we’re done eating, Bryn’s eyes light up. “I almost forgot something.”
My brow knits. “Fortune cookies?”
She laughs, shaking her head as she points to my phone. “We need to leave a review for the driver. From the Lyft.”
I smile, loving that she’s a woman of her word. That she remembered a promise she made to a Lyft driver.
I click on the app. “Want to do the honors?”
“I do.” She gives him five stars, then talks as she types. “Friendly, considerate, and sure knows his restaurant recs.”
Then she hits submit, and my chest warms. It’s the little things that matter.
And I like this little thing.
I like this woman too.
But it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so after I clean up, I tell her I have to go. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We’ll do this again?”
“Definitely.”
I haul her in for a hot, hard kiss. “There is so much more to do,” I say in a low, dirty growl.
“Can’t wait to find out what that might be.”
I cup her cheeks, smooth out her hair. “I had a great time with you.”
“I had doubles,” she says, a little cheeky.
I laugh. “Yes, but I also meant before and after those doubles.”
She smacks her forehead playfully. “Oh, yeah. The other stuff. Talking and eating and things like that. That was pretty good too, Logan.”
“It was better than good,” I say, then give her one more kiss—a soft one this time—before I leave.
On the way home, I’m still savoring the aftereffects of a great night.
Taking out my phone, I google “when to text a woman you want to see again,” then click the top link.
I smile to myself that the top hit is an article on The Dating Pool. Ironic, but no surprise, really. It’s a great site with smart advice.
I read it, digging the last line. But if you like a woman, text her after you’ve seen her.
As the car cruises up Park Avenue, I do just that.
Logan: Have I mentioned I had an amazing time tonight? Well, it bears repeating. Also, would you like to have dinner with me on Friday night?
Her reply is swift.
Bryn: I’d love to. Also, I love sushi. :)
Logan: Then I will take you out for sushi.
Bryn: Sushi and dessert?
Logan: If by dessert you mean more of what we had tonight, then yes, yes, yes.
Bryn: Then my answer is yes, yes, yes.
I lean my head back, replaying the evening the whole way home, then while riding the elevator, then when I’m inside my place too.
Queen Of Tofu greets me, rubbing her fluffy body against my leg.
“Hey, pretty lady.” I scoop her up, stroking her head between the ears. “Did you have a good evening, my queen?”
When she stares back at me with a satisfied grin, I interpret that as yes. What’s the fun of pets if you can’t anthropomorphize them?
