I’m a hot-blooded man who cannot be contained by the likes of a nine-to-five, nor the mindset of “dress for success.” I do not, and simply cannot, adhere to meaningless social contracts which I did not sign.
I’m a creature of the night.
A beast of desire.
I know what I want.
And it’s her.
The woman with the flaked fish.
I’m merely a prowling tomcat sniffin’ out a glamor-puss. Take me in. Rub my belly. Bathe me.

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Night after night, I watch as her alabaster fingers gingerly place the open can of tuna on the windowsill of the building’s basement laundromat. A good brand. The kind from Italy with real olive oil. Not trash from some third-world shithole with murky water and parasites. She serves stray cats the kind of tinned that pairs well with red.
This woman - I like to call her Charlotte - has taste.
She lays out the meal each evening, as the sun sets. The “magic hour” as my High Drama on a Low Budget acting teacher used to call it. On cloudless evenings like tonight, everything takes on a golden silhouette.
I’ve been watching the stray black kitten with two heart-shaped white spots on its back timidly dance for weeks. The mangy little prince wants to be touched and held and fed by hand. Just like me. Feed me. Pet me. The kitten often takes a bite, then scurries away. I watch the entire production, even if it goes on for thirty minutes.
The most comfortable view is from my yard, peering through cracks in the fence. The spot that lends itself to closeness is in the building’s parking lot, obviously, although I’m easily spotted. The best view is the adjacent alley, but the frequent and numerous ‘MISSING CAT’ posters kill the ambiance. Mocking me for what I don’t have; someone who desires me enough to kidnap me.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I pounce.
Now it’s my turn to dance.
It’s my turn to be the star.
To be the kitty surprise.
I nearly trip over the “rent past due” notice outside of my door, and I can’t help but think my corrupt landlord is trying to murder me for being unable to fill her pockets for a few months. I’m but a hapless man without a woman to care for me. I can’t be expected to take care of the rent after my girlfriend left me high and dry for some kind of brutish, wage-slave nothing.
I’m an actor, an artist and a lover. Not some plebeian rent-earner.
Charlotte wouldn’t judge me, she’s different. Only the tenderhearted feed alley cats Rio Mare.
And tonight is the night.
Everything is in place. I’ve been drawing closer with more frequency. Making a home in the brambles past the plywood fence, sticking my nose through the hole in the chainlink around Charlotte’s building and slowly cutting a me-shaped hole in it like a secret door. All that stands between us is fear.
I had punched out the lightbulbs in the courtyard (with a duct tape and towel-wrapped hand), extinguishing their light, one at a time, over the course of the last week. Including the ones the landlord replaced. I perfected sprinting the distance between my place to Charlotte’s in my ballet slippers.
I even purchased an outfit for the occasion. One that I’ve been living in for the last few days to get my scent all over it. Made of real cat fur. I bought it on the black market, but as it turns out the seller lives in my city. What are the odds?
The window in the laundromat is quite small, it’s one of those basement type openings that serve more as breathing holes than anything else, but I need to get inside to present myself to Charlotte.
Earlier, I had greased my arms and torso with room temperature coconut oil and tucked my semi-erect shwing-schwang deep into the nethermost crook of my buttocks. Nice and safe inside my fur knickers, so nothing gets torn off when I propel myself into the laundry room like a bar of wet soap in a prison shower.
Surprise, Charlotte!
Peering through the plywood fence separating my dilapidated, over-priced bungalow from her stucco apartment building, I perch on my calloused heels, rocking back and forth. A generous throb courses through my innards. Now’s the moment.
Slinking through the chainlink doorway, soft mews bubbling from my lips, trepidation fades into the distance with the sun. I creep on all fours over the side of the building, scaring away the little black cat.
“Mine,” I hiss.
I lay parallel to the wall, waiting for the woman to return so that I might nibble on her cuticles or know the scent of her breath. Sniffing at the air, catching a whiff of luxury brand tuna. My mouth waters like a fountain of saliva fondue.
I catch a flash of her auburn hair moving towards the window. I erupt in purring and lay on my back in submission.
She places the tin on the windowsill as usual. I close my eyes. My sandpaper tongue reaches out to her Godly offering like The Creation of Adam, darting for her pale extremities. Wagging, straining and desperate to receive a briny gift, but my pleading organ connects to nothing. I miss her hand by an earth-shattering moment.
All falls silent.
I wait.
Not a sound.
No movement.
Not even a quiet breath.
I count to thirty and peek into the dingy laundry room but it’s empty. No one there. What happened?
I contemplate crawling inside, but suddenly feel rejected and self-conscious. Did she see me? Did I frighten her? I lay on the pavement in the most profoundly melancholic collapse of my entire existence.
Then, in a burst of arousal I lap up the tuna, swigging the oil in a frenzy.
We were closer than we’d ever been.
Surely she knows of my longing. I send her telepathic messages all day long.
I’ll try again tomorrow night.
I prowl back to my home, and put on Milo and Otis. Drifting into a hallucinatory, cold sweat slumber, as one does after such a devastation.
I wait all day with anticipation, for the evening to come. When it finally does, the window doesn’t open.
And the next night.
The next night.
She never comes to the window.
Neither does the stray kitten.
They both seem to have vanished. Evaporated. Abandoned me.
To the feline I say, “Good riddance.”
Less competition.
Then, her apartment is for rent. I book an appointment to see it but I’m placed on a waitlist.
Headaches, the kind behind the eyes, haunt my every waking moment. I barely sleep. My muscles seem to be wasting away.
Delirious to connect with Charlotte in any direct or indirect manner, I decide to buy out the stock of Rio Mare from every store within walking distance of my home. I’ll recreate the scene outside of the laundry room, just like the good old days.
I can’t be gone for too long during the day, because my landlord might lock me out and it seems I’m still blacklisted by DeliveryBing.
Magic hour it is.
I wear my lithe black onesie and venture out into the world.
But each store is the same. Void of Rio Mare! Cleaned out! Emptied!
Could my life get any worse?
I frantically beg a stockist to double check the Rio Mare supply at Walgreens, when a 40-something hag with overdone rouge lipstick approaches. She smells of cigarettes and air freshener, but sports an intriguing patchwork fur coat.
“I’ve seen you around,” she says. “I know what you’re looking for. I have plenty of Rio Mare at my place. I feed it to my cats. I can give you some if you feel like following me home. I’m quite certain I live just up the street from you.”
“Ok,” I say, and calm down. It seems I have a stalker. She’s fooling herself if she thinks I’m going to fall in love with her just because she offers me some feeble cans.
“Nice coat,” I say, trying to fill the moments.
“Thanks. Made it myself. Thinking about getting into leatherwork next.”
I follow her up the road, lost in my thoughts. She’s saying things but I’m not really listening. She’s talking about skincare, or something. Her new leather business. She tears down each of the “MISSING CAT” posters we pass.
“I hate those, too,” I say.
She laughs.
I notice something odd about her coat. One of the fur patches has two heart-shaped white spots, but damned if I recall where I’ve seen it. My short term memory has been fried lately, probably due to the torment of Charlotte’s rejection. It’s too hot for fur coats, anyway. What a strange woman.
“You eat a lot of tuna?” she asks over her shoulder, walking up the path to an ominous, rundown brick house. “They say too much mercury can make you go mad, but I feel quite sane. What about you?”
“I’ve never heard that before,” I say, the hair standing up on the back of my neck.
A symphony of cats yowl inside the two-story as she opens the door.
“You rent?” I ask.
“No, I own,” she smiles. “Come inside.”
A homeowner. How well-to-do. Perhaps I could grow to like her after all.

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ₗₐᵣᵢₛₛₐ’ₛ ₘᵤₛᵢₙgₛ & ₑₗₑᵥₐₜₑd Bᵣₐᵢₙ ᵣₒₜ

Hot Tuna 🥫🎣🐈‍⬛ (fiction)