cat

The man was lying on the couch, his body spread across it like a rotisserie chicken. That's all he could think about—chicken barbecue. The man had been on a diet for months: chicken and broccoli, boiled chicken and broccoli and nothing more. The man ate nothing more than that, plus water and coffee. Over and over and over.

The man wanted that chicken soft and crispy. He wanted it fried, to be exact.

He sat there with a beer in his hand. Just for today, he thought. For today I'll treat myself to this beer, and tomorrow it will be back to the diet. Tomorrow I'll go to work and do all the things I need to do.

He wanted to treat himself to a bundle of misery and regret.

He heard the cat meow, and after ignoring it and watching TV, the cat sat in front of him to get his attention.

“Fine.”

The man stood up from the couch, interrupting the roots that were forming on him, to feed his pet. Lazily the man walked, swinging his arms, to the kitchen area, opened the top drawer filled with nothing but cat food he bought in bulk so he didn't have to go out of his house. And if the food truly finished, the cat could just eat him instead.

He brushed some dust off the counter and followed the daily routine: taking a spoon from the bottom drawer, threading it through the pull ring, and pressing down on the other end, opening the can.

With that in hand he took it to the living room and scooped the insides onto the tiny cat plate, to which the cat patiently picked at it.

The man went back to the kitchen and threw the empty can in the trash can. Then he went on to wash the spoon in the sink. He rubbed it with soap, and the motion was so mundane that his mind started to wander again, thinking about the interaction he had with the woman whose name was on her door. When he came back to reality he realized he was staring blankly at the paper calendar he bought and hung on the kitchen wall. There was a red pen beneath it he used to write X's on it every morning—a habit he had stopped doing for months now. Just like how it's easy to tell at what time a clock stopped working, it had been months since he stopped keeping track of time.

The man shrugged it off and took a beer from the fridge.

Just one more, he thought, and he sat down on the same spot on the couch while his cat was eating and the TV was playing a random show.

Even though he tried to convince himself that he was treating himself to the beer, in reality he knew that was an excuse. All he wanted was for the alcohol to hit his brain and make it stop—make it stop thinking and feeling. Ironic, isn't it?

They say time flies when you have fun and drags when you don't, but in reality, this man hadn't had fun since college. Those three years went by and he didn't have fun, but it still moved fast regardless.

With a moment of clarity he took a deep breath, put the beer bottle on the coffee table, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“It was two weeks ago...”

He lamented and whispered, quiet enough for no one to hear, but loud enough for it to hit him, for him to feel the impact of his words.

That day was two weeks ago—the day the boss let everyone go home early but I stayed. I stayed doing my work and I waited for time to pass. He came to terms with the fact that the reason he was so anxious and pacing and didn't want to look at the clock was because he wanted an excuse to bail. At the last moment he thought about it; the adrenaline and testosterone hit his head and he thought, “Not today.”

“Today, I'll do it.”

So he grabbed his papers and his bag and he rushed to her office, only to bail at the very last moment.

He wanted to talk to her—to the twenty-five-year-old Asian woman who had her own office and her name on its door. He wanted to talk about things that had no practical meaning.

After that he remembered going back home and making excuses: “She was busy.” “She probably has a boyfriend.” “Who needs women anyway.” He thought that and convinced himself of it, and he played his video game and treated himself to some beer.

And the worst part is that today was the same. He paced and stalled; after a while it hit him and he built up his courage and he ran to her, only to chicken out at the last second.

That was today, again. I made excuses, he thought.

It's a loop. He was stuck and he couldn't get out—a loop that started three years ago when he saw a woman and thought she was cute and wanted to be with her. Over and over he made those excuses and drank beer, and sat on his couch and fed his cat and lamented the time he wasted.

But this time, he thought, I'll talk to her tomorrow. Even if she's busy, even if she has a boyfriend, even if he didn't need a woman in his life, he would do it. Talk to her.

And with that thought in his head, and the determination coursing through his veins, he slept extra hard that night.