Philip’s Diary #2

March 19, 2009

May 2nd 2007
I’m sure the excited way in which I reacted to the doorbell’s ring gave the game away. He could tell that something was up. Also, I had spent so long in the shower and was wearing a new shirt and several squirts from my dusty bottle of Paco Rabanne that I’m sure he had his suspicions, but he didn’t make them known. He just sat on the couch and watched me out of the corner of his eye. I met Christine at a mutual friend’s party. The cat had his yoga that night and so didn’t attend. I was glad he didn’t. I always find it difficult enough to talk to girls at parties, but it seems so much more difficult when I’m sitting beside the drinks table, stroking a cat. Over the course of the night we exchanged glances, words and finally phone numbers. She was, by all accounts including my own, much more attractive than me, but she had a faint cautious self-deprecating nature that made her accessible to men like me.

By the time I arrived back from the front door with Christine, the cat had somehow set another place at the table and was seated, upright between the original two settings. Christine “Ooohed” and “Awwed” at the sight of Beetroot sat on a booster seat with a little bib, miniature cutlery and plate. He was laying it on thick. I’m sure she thought it was a cute little flurry on my part, designed to break the opening phase tension of our first date. But as I removed the plates of our starters and prepared to serve the main course, the cat was still there, just staring at her menacingly. I’m sure, at this point; she was thinking that I was more than a little bit odd. I should have called it all off at this point, made up some excuse. I should have known that all this was ominous. I know what he’s like.

I would say that the conversation had dried up, but to be honest it never really got going. Beetroot’s presence in the room was more akin to an elephant than to a cat and the atmosphere hung heavy over my small kitchen. Christine excused herself and asked directions to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are you doing?!”
Christine poked her head round the corner. “Sorry? Did you say something?”
“Eh no, I don’t think so. I sometimes sing out loud to myself and I don’t know I’m doing it.” I babbled. “I wasn’t talking to the cat!” She faked a smile and continued on her way.
“You’re making an idiot out of yourself.”
“Shut up!” I whispered.
“End this now” he demanded aggressively.
“End it now, or I will.” Christine returned and I rose to prepare the dessert.
“I hope you left enough room for profitter…” But I stopped mid-sentence as I turned away from the fridge and back to the table. My knife and my fork were now lodged in Christine’s neck. “…rolls.” She gurgled blood out of her new throat hole and then, almost immediately, just sagged her shoulders and sank into a strangely peaceful looking death. Beetroot held his tail aloft provocatively as he calmly exited the room.


…Not Also, But Only


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