intimacies: soft tinder
day eleven - desire
I work privately with people seeking erotic transformation, desire, creativity and mythic depth. Mentoring and natal chart readings are available.
Raindrop is exactly where he wants to be. He’s squinting in joy as he bathes in sunlight at the window in my studio. I wish Moonbeam felt just as happy hanging out in here. He walked by yesterday and stretched to get up there but then left. It’s too crowded for both of them. He eats next to me at my desk every day, but he leaves right after. I look back at my laptop. If I move on, everything stays the same after I flip through the usual dead ends in my mind—cat beds, treats, catnip. So, I stay. I take a deep breath and stay sad he doesn’t feel cozy. Then, my mind flashes on a memory in Long Beach, both cats curled up next to me on a blanket, beside my space heater.
I didn’t have central air by the beach, so a thin grey heater followed us around my apartment when it was cold. I get up to get the blanket first. I can’t believe I still have it. It’s been washed so many times, its fluff is now flat. It’s the one I bought the day my neighbor called me to say he found a kitten that “looked pretty fucked up” under the hood of a car he was working on. He’d caught him but then let him go when I didn’t pick up his first call. I remember pinching the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes and quieting the carnage of words my mind conjured. I said, “Ohh wow oh my gosh! I definitely want the cat and I’m on my way so please, find him and I’ll help look when I get there. Thank you so much!” I sounded like candy. I hung up, ran my feet into my beach slippers and lunged for my cat carrier. I sprinted to my car with my key in insert position and then drove toward the auto shop where he worked, while yelling into the godforsaken voice-to-text on my phone to get directions.
I get there and see my neighbor. He’s smiling. I’m not. I stare daggers and say, “Find him.” I’m pss-pss-ing in the fourth backyard I’ve wandered into before he runs over to me holding this poor raggedy looking kitten like a trophy. He puts him in the carrier, I sprint to my car, set it down gently on the passenger side, and drive in baby talk to the emergency vet like a bat on his way back to hell.
It’s the first year of covid, the summer of 2020. I have about $20 and the gas light just turned on so I have a max of 5 miles before I need to spend that $20. I drop him off with the front desk and go to my car to wait for their call. I pick up and listen as the vet says, “Payment is due before surgery.” His lower lip is hanging off his face. I say, “It’s not my cat. I found him and I’m going to fundraise whatever the cost is. Please. You have my word.” She pauses and then says, “Okay just this once, because you’re doing this as a good samaritan, but you’ll need to have the payment in 5 hours.” I get the estimate and drive home while calling friends, asking if they’d donate. I even send them the photo my neighbor sent me.
I post about it to my IG. By the end of five hours, people send me a total of $600. On my way to pick him up, I buy a blanket and a little enclosed tent bed since he likes small spaces, like a crab looking for a shell. He’s still like that.
I close the door to a small, enclosed hallway back at my place and open the top of the carrier. I have dish gloves on to my elbows. I’d just spent three hours watching YouTube videos on how to domesticate a feral cat. He’s smol, not even one whole pound at 7 weeks old, hiding his stitched face in the corner. I say, “Hi little teeny tiny.” He tries moving closer to the corner he’s smushed into. I pick him up and he lets out a high-pitched “OW!” He never did develop the M. My friend calls it a quarter of a meow. I set him on the floor where I’d laid a banket. I take off the gloves and pet the little moonbeam on his back, a strip of white fur. He waddles, drunk on pain meds as he smells and screams at everything before coming back over to me. I pick him up and hold him against my chest telling him everything is going to be so much better than okay, that he happened to hit the cat lottery, that his name was Moonbeam.
I set the space heater next to me and go to plug it in. I check the outlet behind my art area for an available plug and see my bright pink curtain tucked between the outlet and the exposed prongs of a plug hanging halfway out. The curtain is bunched all around it like a bonfire awaiting its guests. I grab the fabric. It’s hot like fresh laundry. What sweet tinder it would’ve been. I don’t ever look back there. It’s the modem and router outlet that exists only when the wi-fi gods start acting funny. I would’ve never seen it. My mouth drops open. It would’ve eventually caught fire. This isn’t the only time a soft desire has protected life.
eros, always,
նայիրի
I work privately with people seeking erotic transformation, desire, creativity and mythic depth. Mentoring and natal chart readings are available.
Safety note: Space heaters should never be left unattended, especially close to blankets. Mine is only on while I’m sitting at my desk and is unplugged when I leave the room.
Sweet baby Moonbeam <3
💚✨