Settlement

Sleepy cat. Yellow eyes. Fur coat the colour of milk and browning apples. With long white whiskers. Her face is soft and folded with recent sleep, and she blinks languidly as she stretches and yawns, baring sharp silver teeth, bald bone. I want to smell her. See whether she has picked up the scent of the mud and rain around her, or the must of the wicker chair she sits on, or the hard smell of the painted wooden table between us. Or whether she has a purely unique smell of her own. 

She sits companionably across from me, glances occasionally at my little glass of lime juice, eyes my fat book with practiced disinterest and then turns away to gaze unseeingly at the rain. Fully awake now.

I wonder what she's do if i tried to bite her. I want to see if her fur really is as thick as it seems. To feel her muscles contract against my teeth. She'll probably scratch my eyes out. Or bite me back with those long, pristine fangs of hers. Or do both. 

Vader the crow fusses over a scrap of filthy brown plastic bag in the middle of the quadrangle, unmindful of the drizzle or the round eyes watching him through slits in the surrounding buildings. They have repainted, and rebuilt the buildings, so the settlement now resembles a giant butterscotch cake. The thought makes me crave sugar. Suddenly he abandons this pursuit and flies off in a screech and flutter of black feathers and discarded plastic shreds. 

As if on cue, my companion on the chair opposite mine, uncoils herself and jumps blithely to the floor. She strolls off, stretching her back and shaking out her paws. She, unlike me, has better things to do.