My ongoing adventures in the realm of fiction writing. Here’s part two.

I met her at a party, Leah that is, not my therapist. Through my research at school, I learned that eighty per cent of all college relationships begin within twenty feet of a keg. Thus, our meeting was not a particularly novel experience. What did strike me as odd on that first night back in December of 1986, was that she was talking about her mother’s cats. In itself that wasn’t quite what I would call divergent thinking, yet on the Saturday night before exam week of our freshman year when people were traditionally talking about finals, Caribbean vacations, and Christmas wish lists, such feline subjects seemed slightly off base. Maybe that’s why I first fell for her—she would talk about anything, anywhere, no matter how out of place or time. I envied that immensely.

I’m not one to believe in love at first sight, yet something more than the water I had been drinking all night was working its way through my body as I listened in on her conversation. I was never much of a drinker in college. I guess it just wasn’t my thing, probably because I could be naturally goofy and have a fun night without the introduction of any mind altering substances into my body. Come to think of it, excluding the exhaust fumes that usually crept up through the floorboards of my car, there were no mind altering substances in my life whatsoever; at least until Leah latched onto my heart.

So anyway, she was talking about the cats. Maybe it was the way she held herself when she talked that fascinated me so much as I stood transfixed on her arm motions. She was describing how the cats would jump from one bookcase to another in her mother’s living room. They would wait on one shelf, and stand still for a few moments to survey the scene, then broad jump the five feet between the two book cases. I suppose for a cat that’s pretty impressive at an eight foot height. All the while her hands were moving gracefully through the air as she mimicked the cats movements. I remember wondering how bombed she was. Despite the academic importance of our study days, it seemed that everybody still had a bit more to learn about alcohol before winter break began. Compare and contrast a Rolling Rock hangover to a Captain Morgan’s hangover. I hadn’t seen her with a drink in her hand for an hour or so. Not that I had been staring at her the whole time, just keeping tabs.