Cats, newspapers and frozen lips

Each sip of tea was an effort. After exhaling steam and catching his breath, he said:

"That's a beautiful cat you have."

The cat didn’t acknowledge the compliment; she simply turned her other side to the sun.

“You’re sooo right,” Frau Schicklbraun smiled.

She often stretched her words like that when she especially liked what had been said — like a cat basking in sunlight.

"That’s worth noting, definitely worth noting," he thought, but the next sip of tea burned his tongue so badly he forgot what exactly needed noting.

“Fluffie!” — the cat purred, jumped down from the windowsill, ran over, and curled up like a loaf on the woman’s lap.

“Unusual,” he remarked, carefully trying to sip the hot tea.

“Yeah, true,” Frau Schicklbraun seemed more confused than pleased — like she had completely warmed up to the moment.

Fluffie purred contentedly, eyes closed, still loaf-shaped. For a while, they silently watched the cat until the hostess spoke to the guest:

“Did you know they don’t usually do that?”

“Cats?”

“Not just any cats. Wait a moment — ” Frau Schicklbraun gently moved Fluffie from her lap to the couch, went over to her computer, fussed around, pulled a still-warm sheet from the printer, and handed it to him.

“This is a very special breed. Ragdoll. Here, read it.”

He pushed the teacup aside, brought his glasses to his eyes, and looked:

“Ragdoll — a breed of large semi-longhaired cats.
The breed was developed in the USA in the 1960s by Persian cat breeder Ann Baker from California. Cats were selected for their especially gentle nature, resulting in their ability to completely relax in human arms — hence the name of the breed.”

“Well… this is certainly an interesting… encyclopedic note…” he trailed off, glancing at Frau Schicklbraun, unsure what to say next.

“They don’t usually behave like this,” she smiled at Fluffie, then turned the same smile to the guest, relieving the tension.

“How do they usually do then?” he took another sip, trying to look less awkward.

Just then Fluffie “unloafed,” rolled onto her back, stretched all four legs in different directions, yawned sweetly, twitched her ears and whiskers, and remained lying in this absurdly uncomposed position.

“Like that… more like her,” Frau Schicklbrown smiled again.

Fluffie twitched her ears again, as if sensing sunlight on their tips through the gaps in the curtains.

They were quiet for a while.

“She really is a beautiful cat,” he said at last.

He would have called the moment an “awkward silence,” but he was too old to feel embarrassed. (No, not true.)

“So then —” he cleared his throat, “thank you for the tea, I’ll be off now.” He leaned over the table to pet Fluffie, but a sharp pain stabbed his lower back so fiercely that he winced.

“Hold on!” cried Frau Schicklbraun, darting under his left arm and simultaneously sliding a cane under the other.

“Can’t straighten up now, I’m afraid…”

“That painful?”

“It’s nothing… happens… when I sit still too long… standing or lying’s still okay… but this…” he winced again.

Frau Schicklbraun grabbed him under the arms and pulled sharply upward. His back cracked distinctly, and he groaned through clenched teeth, but he did straighten up.

“Now then,” the hostess bustled about. “This is your usual, for every day,” she handed him a handful of violet pills. “And for your back — just a second…” she rummaged through some cabinets, stood on tiptoe to reach the top shelf — “Here,” she handed him a tube of ointment. “At night, make sure you apply it at night only, just before going to bed. And don’t go steaming your back, that’s nonsense, they all say that, like, "take a hot bath, you´ll feel better and so on, but then you get out, the joints cool down, temperature drop—bam, it hits you… Oh, but what am I going on about —” she threw up her hands — “you can wash, of course, just not too hot, and apply this at night, then wrap it warm — that you can do, yes… But honestly, how did it catch you again —” she shoved the ointment into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you, thank you… of course, yes…” he was clearly overwhelmed by the flurry of care, but still managed to lean over the table and pet Fluffie.

Fluffie lay calmly on the couch, entirely unfazed by Frau Schicklbraun’s emotional outburst.

“There you go!” The guest straightened up and slapped his thighs. “I’m not so bad off after all.”

“But the ointment — please, do use it,” the hostess looked at him.

Her gaze held such a mix of worry, anxiety, and care that it became cloying. He hastily took his leave, put on his shoes, and stepped outside.

It wasn’t far. Two steps down the stairwell to the right—and he was home.

They were neighbors.

He took off his shoes, hobbled to the couch, tossed the cane aside, collapsed heavily, and covered his face with his hands. Eighty-two years old — and where had all those syrupy gazes been when he was still young and they would have mattered?

As Frau Schicklbraun had instructed, he carefully rubbed the healing ointment on his lower back and took three purple pills before going to bed.

He slept poorly. All night long, something unclear, dark, murky, and shifting pressed against his closed eyelids —until finally, the vague dark blot took the shape of a beautiful gymnast, performing her routine with virtuoso precision. When she finished, she suddenly moved close to him and gave a short kiss — or rather, a push — with her lips to his, shoving him out of sleep.

He woke with a start. Dawn was breaking outside the window. His lips were frozen. He shuddered again, and the dream vanished completely. His lips were definitely frozen, as if a dentist had numbed them and ordered him to kiss an iceberg. He tried to fall back asleep, but couldn’t. He got up, turned on the light, and went to the mirror. It showed nothing new — sparse graying hair, a wrinkled face, bluish shadow from a harsh, thorough shave above the lip…

“Did I shave?” he ran his finger over his face — no, more importantly: what’s with my lips?

Usually dry and firm, they now looked surprisingly smooth and full of blood, almost swollen.

“Something definitely happened — must’ve been bitten in the dream…”

But his lips had no sensation at all. He poked them with his fingers, stretched them into a smile — nothing, like they weren’t his. He went to the bathroom, turned the hot water on in the sink until it nearly boiled, puckered his numb lips as best he could, and held them under the hot stream. The numbness started to recede, but very slowly. Only after a couple of minutes did he realize the bathroom was filling with steam. He dipped a finger in the water and yanked it back — it was practically boiling. But his lips had only just begun to thaw. He turned off the water and looked in the mirror. It was fogged up. He wiped it with his palm. Still red, not burned, thankfully —and now, with satisfaction, he poked them — they at least had feeling again.

He turned off the light and lay back down. Sleep didn’t come easily, but at least his lips weren’t freezing anymore— and the pain in his back had stopped.

When he finally woke up for good, the night’s incident already felt like a dream. The little room was modest but had everything he needed — even a private bathroom. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been there. What kind of connection he had with the outside world — he didn’t know. There was no internet. The TV was there but showed nothing except calming white noise. He couldn’t remember how long it had been this way. He struggled out of bed, swallowed three more purple pills Frau Schicklbraun had given him yesterday, and went to make tea.

He always had tea in the morning. There was tea, but no cookies. He always drank tea with cookies — and now there weren’t any. This made him sit down on the couch, think deeply, and realize that his usual routine had been disrupted.

So — no cookies. Something had to be done about that. But even the thought of it made his back flare with pain again. He reached for the tube and rubbed some more ointment on — apparently the evening dose had worn off.

“Well then, if there are no cookies,” he reasoned, “they must be replaced with something.”

He recalled that people often watched television while having breakfast — but he had already tried to turn it on. Only static and white noise. He got up, paced the room, and looked out the window. A mailman zipped by on a bicycle.

Of course. Newspapers.

He just realized he hadn’t received any newspapers the entire time he’d been there. He thought deeply as the kettle whistled, removed it from the stove, sat back on the couch, and thought again.

Alright. No cookies means a need for information. No radio, no television — then newspapers. But the mailman had already passed.

Usually, his mornings went: tea with cookies, then reading or dozing, and evenings he visited Frau Schicklbraun. But what did he read? Just books — oddly out-of-date and keeping appear in his room like from nowhere. He clutched his head in horror. If there were no cookies, then he needed newspapers — urgently.

There was no choice. Out of decency, he pulled on his pants and, just like that — in a tank top, pants, and slippers — stepped out, walked a few steps to the left, and rang Frau Schicklbraun’s bell.

She opened shortly, in her usual house robe and with a watering can in hand. But first, through the cracked door, Fluffie darted out and began affectionately rubbing against his legs.

“Oh, it’s you!” She looked a bit out of breath, glad, and surprised all at once. “So early! Did something happen?”

“Frau Schicklbraun —” he coughed to the side “— does your television work?”

‘What? TV? I was going to ask about newspapers,’ he thought, confused why he asked that instead.

“Well yes,” she looked puzzled.

“Mine... doesn’t.”

“Well, you never connected it?”

“Well... no... I guess not.”

“And you’re just now noticing?”

“I just wanted to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“What’s going on... I... actually... maybe I should get it connected, now that I think of it...” he trailed off awkwardly.

“Alright then,” she snapped back into her brisk, bustling self — just like yesterday, with the ointment. “By the time they get that connected, all the water will’ve leaked out —and you know, water’s not cheap either!” She chuckled at her own pun. “Better take some newspapers — I have some.”

“Yes... that’s actually what I came for,” he said, flustered again.

“Here, take them — I get them every day anyway. No idea where to put them. I’ll give them to you from now on.”

She put down the watering can and handed him a stack of newspapers from the entryway table.

He was surprised by how many there were.

“Tell me… why don’t I get any? I just saw the mailman —he passed by — saw him through the window,” he sniffed the top paper. “This one’s fresh — must be today’s…”

“Well, you don’t subscribe!”

“But I’d like to…”

“Don’t go wasting money! Besides, by the time you subscribe and they start arriving, it’ll be next month. I’ll give you mine — free of charge. I don’t know what to do with them anyway, and I keep forgetting to cancel. You’ll enjoy them, and it’s convenient for me. Deal?”

“Yes… of course.” He felt rather silly holding the stack while Fluffie kept rubbing against his legs, making it hard to concentrate.

“Great,” Frau Schicklbraun concluded. “Read them in good health, but —” she paused “— better after lunch. It sinks in better that way.”

Then he remembered his empty fridge — he’d run out of everything just yesterday.

“Actually, about sinking in and lunch… I…”

“Oh right — today’s the day! Thursday, isn’t it?”

“Um… I think so.”

“There you go!” she glanced at her phone — he’d never seen one before. “Glad you reminded me! Are you busy? Go put the papers away and come back — we’re heading out!”

“Out?”

“Oh, don’t look so scared! Thursday is market day. I used to do it alone, but since you dropped by so early, we’ll go together — for me, for you, and for Fluffie — look, she’s starving, she’ll rub the skin off your legs. Do you have a car?”

He remembered he did have keys lying on his table —maybe even car keys.

“Perfect. Stash the newspapers, get dressed, grab your keys, and come back. I’ll finish up and meet you outside.” She lifted the watering can, nudged Fluffie back in with her foot, and closed the door.

He went back in, set the newspapers on the table, and changed clothes automatically.

“Out,” huh?