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Cat People
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Kitty Galore

Kyle Hemmings

    We met on the Oriental Express streaming under white pockmarked night, congenitally deaf sky. I sensed Silver Vine on her white flesh, and her blue eyes reminded me of one too many fires I had set as a child. When the train stopped in Bulgaria, we let our guard down. “Catch any Tartars lately?” I asked with the coyness used to charm snake-women, illegal immigrants in Amsterdam. She leaned forward in her seat opposite to me. Her voice was a tortoiseshell pattern of tones and kitten-whispers. “I have orders to kill you. If I close my eyes, will you promise to escape? You have such a nice face. In my sleep, I could lick your face, savoring the trace of salt.” But I was tired of running. I spent much of my expat life under the beds of married women who eventually ratted me out to Gestapo agents. “Listen,” I said, “if you’re going to kill me, and pussycats are never worth killing, let’s make this worthwhile. I’ll please you out of your skull, kill you with pleasure.” I invited her back to my luxury car. In the bunk, I offered her my tabby scars and paltry alley flesh. But staring through me with her smoke-eyes, she said it was a trait passed down in her family of hemophiliacs and amnesiacs wondering along Europe’s lonely rails—she couldn’t taste sweetness—not in any form, not for the life of her. And with her long aristocratic fingers squeezing my throat, she smiled both vermin and luck of the chase. There was a subtle tilt of her face looming over mine. “Catch any Tartars lately?” she asked so sweetly, so endearingly.



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