Strange and Wonderful Things: Auspices
Sometimes, strange and wonderful things just happen. Then again, sometimes they don't. That's something I've learned well in my twenty years of life. My name is Saçma- Sash, informally- and my life as an erudite, selective, self-contained hyena makes me unusual in a world where girls of the spotted pelt tend to drop out of school to have the cubs of unknown fathers. I, on the other hand, live in a college town, though I'm taking a year off of school, and work at a bookstore, which provides me with just enough income to live comfortably in a tiny, tiny loft. That's my life, and it suits me fine, although my friends insist I'm secretly dying for a good lay. I'm not- I've had plenty of... encounters. It's just that none of them were still interesting in the morning.
So there I was on a Friday night, with nothing better to do than laundry. I gathered up the detritus from my floor, slinging it all into a huge, sturdy canvas bag and hauling it past the elevator that's been broken since I've lived here and down the million flights of stairs to the street. My favorite laundromat is only a few blocks away, which is good because this bag weighs a ton. The sticky heat of the late-August night is starting to get into my fur just as I arrive into the frigid, air-conditioned bliss of the Sudsy Puppy.
Stan, the Puppy himself, shouts a 'Hey, Sash!' from behind the counter. He's got a mini-TV back there, and seems to be watching some kind of sport. He's a middle-aged Great Dane, with that peculiar skinniness some males get at his age. His long, ropelike tail beats against the wall a couple times as he returns to his ballgame. I come here every week, so we both know I know what to do with the coin-operated machines. I glance around once, just to make sure no potential Prince or Princess Charming is on the premises. It's just a habit, not like I expect to meet anyone here of all places.
It's the same group I'd expect to see- a young cheetah mother, cradling a baby as she watches pastels spin in a rinse cycle. She's pretty, in a faded, tired way. A flamingo boy, wearing school colors and gaming intently on some little handheld thing. Boring. And, there in the back, sprawled artistically across an entire folding table and with a pair of headphones blocking out the general noise of washing machines, an iguana. Dark green with bars of gold and black, a row of spikes down his back, poking out of his jacket, which is worn backwards. I've never seen him before. He's leaned over a book, which I make a mental note to go and check the title of if possible.
The iguana guy is using my favorite machine in the back corner, so I head for the one opposite it. The bottom row is out of order over here, so I have to stand on my tiptoes to load my stuff into the upper machine. I'm so proud of myself for muscling all my clothes plus detergent in there that it takes me a minute to realize... the dial is just out of reach. I stand on my toes, stretching, stubby claws digging into the industrial carpet, and manage to brush it with one fingertip. I'm about to yell for Stan when I hear a "Hold on, little miss," and suddenly a solid, slightly warm body is pressed against mine and the dial is being turned by two long, dark green fingers.
My ears swivel and I freeze- the inexplicable prey reaction that made me a laughingstock back home. I can't move, but it doesn't matter because as soon as I'm coherent enough to turn he's already retreating, back to his own table and the book whose cover I still can't see. I take a moment to process: His voice was deep and a little rough. He knew to put my clothes in for a gentle wash on cold. His book looks an awful lot like an anthology I have back in my loft. He is only a little taller than me, unusual for a male. I decide: This is someone I need to become better acquainted with.
Thusly resolved, I start to saunter back to my table before deciding, mid-stride, to be bold and walk over to his instead. This results in a near-stumble as my overlarge feet get tangled- just another of my many charming traits. Thankfully, though, he doesn't seem to have noticed as I arrive at his folding table.
"Hey." I say. Brilliant conversational gambit.
"Hey," he responds, regarding me with deep bronze eyes. They're gorgeous and unusual, and... Oh. I'm staring.
"So. I wanted to thank you. For starting the machine." I gesture vaguely over my shoulder.
"Anytime, little miss. Let me know if you need any more help." And with that, he returns to his book, which, now that I'm closer, is indeed the anthology I thought it was. And our conversation seems to have ended. Crap. My mind races for a moment, seeking some way to continue it, until I realize that he's on the last page of a story. Maybe he's just one of those very particular readers who have to finish their paragraph before they can concentrate...
I'm just turning to go back to my own table when he dog-ears the page he's on and looks up. Score.
"I don't suppose you know of any good restaurants around here?" he asks a little hesitantly, "I just transferred to the university and I'm feeling a bit out of sorts."
"Well. The steak place down the road is pretty good, I've been told. But I'm a vegetarian, so I'd have to recommend Eats Shoots and Leaves. It's a little hard to find, but totally worth it."
He perks up at 'vegetarian,' and cracks a smile at the name of the place. I always have too.
"Well, I happen to be a vegetarian myself, and I don't believe in coincidences. Would you consider joining me for dinner, little miss? After our clothes are clean, of course."
This is so much better than I'd hoped for.
"Of course. Do you live far from here? You can leave your things at my place and we'll walk."
Plans made, we make small talk until everything is clean, dry, and folded. I toss my stuff back into my canvas bag as he throws his many band t-shirts into a duffel, and we set off for home. I don't miss the sly wink Stan throws me as he sees us leaving together.
***
"You can throw your stuff on the chair over there, if you want," I direct my guest, and as I do I realize we've been speaking for nearly an hour and still haven't introduced ourselves. "I'm Sash, by the way. Short for Sacma."
"Sacma... Lovely. I'm Ritika, called Teak. We had very creative parents, didn't we?"
We both laugh, reflecting on this, until my stomach gives a tremendous growl, reminding us both that it's getting late and we still haven't eaten. We set out immediately, and arrive just as the last large dinner group is leaving, so we have pick of the tables. I let Teak lead, and he selects a corner booth.
"Sash! You're... on a date?" Xiongmao, my panda friend, giggles into her notepad. I don't argue, and neither does my lizard companion... guess it is a date.
"I'll have whatever she's having," he says, and both stare expectantly at me. I shift the responsibility, and tell Xiong that we'll have whatever her dad feels like cooking. It's all excellent, so I'm not worried.
Ten minutes later, old Daxiong himself comes out, pushing a laden cart of vegetarian delights.
"Mm... Bamboo tonight," he mumbles, squinting myopically at us over his little round glasses. "Bamboo, and more bamboo. Bamboo stir fry, bamboo with rice, bamboo broccoli, baby bamboo shoots. And for dessert..."
"Bamboo?" Teak asks, sparkles dancing in golden eyes.
"No, fortune cookies. Impertinent boy." We all laugh as Daxiong hefts steaming, fragrant plates onto our table. With one last mumbled 'Bamboo...' he lumbers away. Xiongmao has already left, no doubt to watch from the kitchens. Nosy panda.
I dig in, watching Teak out of the corner of my eye. He's ignoring the fork in favor of chopsticks, wielding them elegantly between long, grass-green fingers. I smile slowly.
***
One hour and several bottles of strong Chinese beer later, we leave the restaurant in a fanfare of 'Come back soon'-s and fortune cookies. I'm already well past tipsy but it doesn't seem to have affected Teak at all... until he starts singing. His voice, low and a little scratchy like some indie-rock singer's, is surprisingly tuneful as he belts out some Italian song I don't recognize but feel I should dance to. This rapidly turns silly as we weave down the street, elbows linked, both of us waltzing theatrically down lanes which will, I know, lead to my apartment and up the stairs and to my bed. It isn't usually this much fun but I can't help but think, a bit regretfully, that he's just like every other male and quite a few females- good for one night only, like some long-ago movie rental. After we do this the mystery will be gone. I keep my sighs inside as we arrive and clatter up the millions of dingily carpeted stairs.
The regret is starting to blur my sight until the iguana, apparently much stronger than he looks, first picks my pocket for the key and then, before I can protest, scoops me up in his arms and carries me across the threshold bridal-style.
"Put me down," I mumble indistinctly into his shoulder. It's a nice shoulder, definitely muscled and smelling a bit like clove and patchouli. In my inebriated state, I don't exactly want it to go away.
"It's nearly midnight. I'll turn into a pumpkin soon," he whispers gently into the shell of my ear as he tucks me into my futon. As I drift to sleep, I hear my front door close.
***
I'm woken by sunlight.
It's disgustingly bright and cheerful, and if I listen I can hear, down below, city noises. I roll over, burying my pounding head beneath the pillow. I got a first name, one date, and a lousy hangover from that miserable iguana. Nothing else.
I stew in my anger and disappointment for a while until hunger and a full bladder force me up. Not until the latter is attended to and I'm frying soy bacon on my electric burner do I discover the note on my little end table:
"Sash,
Lovely evening. I can't take you to a restaurant, knowing of none, but I hope you'll accept my invitation to dinner at my apartment. Until we meet again, gül bahçesi. "
A signature in which only a large capital 'T' could be picked out concluded the note, and a map to his apartment was sketched on the back. A slow grin stretched my lips. This was going to be interesting.
***
Author's Note:
This is my first furry story, and only the first chapter. Subsequent ones will, I assure you, have yiff. Please rate and comment to let me know how to improve it!
Oh, and the translations: gül bahçesi is Turkish for 'rose garden.' Teak has recognized the origin of her name and is complimenting her in the same language. This may or may not become significant later.