The Writer Makes a Promise
“No, I wouldn’t like a treat. What do you think I am, a dog?”
“With the way you act…”
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
I shrugged indifferently, and fed Scooter a treat from between the bars. My kitty took it gratefully, chewing and looking relieved when the chamomile in the treats made him relax.
“That’s better,” I cooed, scratching him on the head as much as my hand and the grille would allow.
“If this were a written story, I’d be staring at you in ‘sick admiration’,” Raine said, folding his hands over his chest.
“Oh, give it a rest,” I grumbled, and hauled my bag in his direction. As predicted, he moved lithely out of the way, and I sunk into incoherent sentences about ‘stupid ninjas.’
“Flight seven one four, leaving for Dublin airport, boarding now. If you are a passenger of this flight, please proceed to gate four.”
I hefted Scooter’s cage along with me, and signaled to Raine. “That’s us!”
His eyes looked clouded, as if he were distracted, but he came over anyway.
I’ll find out one day.