It was even blacker up here than down below, the glow of the moon not making much of an impact through the skylight. Reaching through the bars of the gate, I flicked the switch of the portable lamp Art had positioned near the hatch. As the loft slowly illuminated, I spotted Nut sitting at the far end of the space, awake, ears pricked and tail madly swishing in a figure of eight behind her. She was staring straight at me, her body quivering in high alert.
In those two short months she’d grown a lot, at least trebling in length from nose to hind. Her slender shape had become thicker, coated in a layer of fat which shifted in waves when she ran, and a little pouch of it hung below her midriff. During the day she’d gamble around the loft at quite a pace, running in circles around the space and leaping over any crates or baskets in her racetrack. Her legs had started to become more refined, the twists of muscle more apparent, and where she stood, her elongated toes spread confidently across the wooden floor.
But that night she’d given up on running, and her attention was all on me. Some deep instinct told me I shouldn’t stay too still. Isn’t that what a predator would do; skulk and stare? To make sure she knew I wasn’t hiding, I lifted my arm and drummed my fingers on the edge of the wooden floor in a repeated tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap. Nut immediately skulked towards me, her head lowered and black pupils dilated. Now she stalked me like I was the piece of meat, and ignoring the nagging voice that so often told me I was wrong, I continued to dance my fingers on the wood. Nut came to a stop in front of me and flopped down passively on her soft belly, crossing her eyes as she pressed her nose against my fingers.
As I considered how much she might be able to pick up about where I’d been the previous day or what I’d eaten by my smell, I felt a strange gritty sensation across the back of my thumb. Through the bars of the baby gate, Nut was stroking her tongue slowly across my knuckles, her eyes closed in what looked like bliss.
Oh, Nut.
This was terrifying. New. It had said nothing in the guidebooks or prep material about this. And always, that little voice, screaming at me that I shouldn’t let this happen.
Could she taste something on me? Was she hungry? Was she trying to get a better sense of me? The thing is, it felt so caring, this soft working of my hand. As if she was using the most intimate means she could to communicate. I imagined myself licking her back, dragging my tongue against her fur, each of us scratching each other’s inner itches.
I didn’t want her to stop.
I scratched behind her ear with my other hand and she rolled her neck to press the back of her head hard against my fingernails. Without words, she was talking to me, telling me that she wanted me there.
Nut shouldn’t be doing this, she shouldn’t be aware of pleasure or seeking it, not here, not living in this red loft. I had had no warning. It was me that sought her out for comfort, not the other way around.
I should check the manuals, I should check the manuals again just in case.
I pulled away and retreated down the ladder, giving one last look to the little round face peering down at me from the darkness. Art was still in the bathroom but the door was now ajar. I tapped it open with the tips of my fingers until there was enough space to stick my head through. I kept my voice low, soothing.
“Arthur?”
Art stood in front of the sink, staring down at something I couldn’t see in the basin. He didn’t turn or show a sign that he knew I was there.
“Arthur.”
There was the slightest movement as he let out a sigh. He shook his head slowly, side to side. “It’s OK, just g- go. S’fine.” He stuttered on the “g”, and I felt a sickening lurch.
Hold onto the doorframe, deep breaths. Be present. Don’t go back.
I didn’t believe that everything was fine. Art was lying. But I left him there and returned to our bed to slip into memories of the cow-dream I’d risen to escape from.
8
It wasn’t until early summer and we’d been living together six months or so that the signs of moving were permanently hidden. But even then the dust hadn’t quite settled.
Art and I were both on edge, with each other and the house. I’d spent most of my twenties in my own flat, and it had been far easier then to live in balance with my environment. I’d put things in a certain place, and they’d stay there until I moved them again. I had secret drawers and cupboards for the scissors, the sewing kit, the egg timer. I have a good memory for places.
But in Dukesberry Terrace, trinkets and treasures migrated around the house. Art would decide that there was a better place for something, or he’d use the scissors and never put them back, instead tidying them away to some dark corner only he knew about. Sometimes picture frames moved from one end of a
