Page 1 of Kitten

Part One

1

When James first introduced me to Silver, he planted her in my arms like she was something I already loved. I immediately dropped her. “That’s okay,” said James, who forgave me for everything. “That’s fine.” Silver landed on her feet the way cats are supposed to, even when they fall off tall buildings. I thought that was amazing.

“My parents are on vacation,” James said. “I’m looking after her until the first of October.”

October was in two weeks. The year would soon be over. Each time I thought about this, a wave of anxiety passed through me, and I had to dig my nails into my palms for something else to focus on. Later, we were going to dinner to celebrate my birthday, which made me feel similarly psychologically ambushed. It had been a year since I last spoke with my mother. I was twenty-two and aware of the rest of my life.

James picked a Georgian restaurant famous for its khachapuri, something I’d never heard of. Because he had to work late, he missed my actual birthday two days ago. I wasn’t bothered, but my roommate, Lou, said it signaled somethingslightly obsessive about him. “I’mthe obsessive one in our relationship,” I said. “People always think there’s only one obsessive,” she replied. She bought me a dozen cupcakes, the first time we celebrated a birthday sober. She was hungover from a gallery opening the night before and could only stomach two, so I brought the rest to James’s to have after dinner. When James saw the cupcakes, he was pleased. “You always say your roommate hates you,” he said. “But look! She loves you.”

James didn’t understand why I assumed that people disliked me. It was true, only it didn’t bother me like it bothered him. Strangers intimidated me and I tended to avoid eye contact with people, even the ones I knew. Meanwhile, James was liked by everybody and had a face that made people say yes to him. It wasn’t clear whether he was aware of this power. James was like a child if a child were an adult.

“Watch this.” James stuck out his index finger. Silver, who had been sulking behind the leather armchair since her fall, darted to his feet. Then she rose, standing on her hind legs to meet the tip of his finger with her nose. She held the position for two seconds before returning to the ground. This was incredible to witness.

“You should put her in a commercial or something,” I said.

James laughed. “She doesn’t perform for just anyone.”

I waved my finger to get Silver’s attention. Next to James’s tall figure she looked even smaller, just a smudge. She arched her neck to look at me, puckish, but did not move. It was hard not to take the rejection personally.

“We should get going, or we’ll be late.”

James was always anxious about being late. Whenever I spent a lot of time with him, I felt myself reaching for his worries like I was trying on his clothes. But even when such worries threatened to materialize, I could never summon enough feeling to care.

The corridor was narrow, and we bumped shoulders. Silver followed us with her tail held straight except for the tip, which twitched and nodded drowsily. I looked into her round green eyes and felt something shift from deep inside me, a desire to pick her up and put her in my mouth, not to eat but to keep safe. It was impressive how oversized pupils wielded this power over people. If pets or babies weren’t cute, we wouldn’t have them.

“I’m not sure about that,” James said. “I think people have a natural instinct to look out for helpless things.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But only because they’recute.”

—

The sky was a shadeof black rare for Manhattan, thick and impermeable like the nights from home. James called my name, I hurried, and we slipped into a subway car just before the doors closed.WHAT COULD YOU DO IF YOU WEREN’T HUNGOVER?goaded an advertisement for nonalcoholic cocktails, which seemed a little mean-spirited. “Sometimes you just need to be drunk,” I said.

“They’re actually one of our clients,” James said. “But don’t worry, I didn’t write the copy.”

My dress was satin, tight, a bit hot. I tugged the neckline lower, then felt strange about doing so, like people would think I was making a show of myself. Men didn’t often lookat me, but when they did, they did so solemnly, like they felt bad but were unable to stop. There was something slightly off-putting about me—maybe the way I stared at things, how long I could go without speaking in conversation—that made people find me either interesting or irrelevant. I wondered who I’d be if my face were completely blank. Sometimes I imagined people walking around without features, just canvases of skin stretched taut from scalp to chin, with a few clean holes for breathing and eating.

James paid attention to appearances. When we first slept together, he pointed out the three freckles on the curve of my right ear. Besides my mother, James was the only person who knew they existed. I relished the rush of being looked at by someone who saw you differently, more specifically, than the rest of the world. Kissing him felt like dying and being reincarnated as a stuffed animal: inanimate, made to be loved.

We arrived fifteen minutes after our reservation. I thought James would be antsy, but he only made a joke. “The first time I’m fashionable,” he said.

“A little more fashionable and you’re out of a table,” said the host.

I was horrified. James merely replied, “I’ll take it up with the MTA.”

If the commute required more than one transfer, James took a car. I couldn’t tell whether James took cars because he liked to be early or because he was rich.

The host led us to a table near a family with a crying baby. It was very ugly with a wrinkled purple face. “Bless her,” said James. I nodded to let James know that I agreed, bless the baby. But I didn’t really care about the baby.

The waiter and James spent a long time discussing the menu and wine list. Eventually, James settled on four items to share and a bottle of Saperavi, a Georgian red wine. Throughout their conversation, James established a light but significant camaraderie with the waiter, who left with a loose smile on his face. I was relieved the waiter didn’t look at me. I didn’t care much about what went inside my body, and if other people could decide for me, I let them.

Our glasses filled with a deep, inky red.

“The Saperavi grape’s pretty unique.” James noticed me studying the bottle. “It doesn’t just have red skin, but also red flesh.” Saperavi, he added, was the Georgian word fordie.I liked that. So direct. I wondered if anyone had ever died from drinking too much wine in one sitting. “That’s why,” James said, “some winemakers use Saperavi grapes to give color to red blends.”

I realized then that Saperavi likely meantdye,notdie.That was disappointing.