Tag Archives: Rembrandt

Parental Deception; chapter one, part one

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“I know Thanksgiving is this Thursday, Jasmine,” I say, pacing my living room floor. “I can read a calendar as well as you can.” Onyx and Jet, my two black cats, sister and brother, pace alongside me. Onyx is mewing at me, and Jet is watching her back, as always. Onyx is five pounds of fluffy attitude, whereas Jet is close to four times her size and pure muscle. He’s content to take a backseat to his more vocal sister, however, which has been their pattern since I got them eight years ago when they were six months old. I fan my waist-length black hair away from my neck as I’m suddenly hot. Perimenopause is no joke, yo.

“You’re delegated to make the pies—whatever kind you like.” My older sister has been in charge of family functions since we were kids, and she’s not above bossing me around.

“I’ll make one pumpkin and one sweet potato. How many people are going to be there?” I make a note to myself because I’ll forget if I don’t. It’s my passive-aggressive way of getting back at Jasmine for being such a control  freak.

“Me, Bob, Coral, Jamal, the twins, Jordan, Joanna, and their three kids as well. Vivian said she’d try to make it, but she hasn’t booked her tickets, yet.” Vivian is our younger sister who lives in Boston and is an artist. She has no concept of time or responsibility to others. It’s not that she’s thoughtless, but that she’s focused on her art most of the time. Bob’s sister and her family lives out of state, and I’ve never met any of them. Jordan and Joanna live in NYC, so they must be flying out for the holiday. Jasmine’s other two kids, Robert Jr. and Michael, live in California and Florida, respectively, and won’t be able to make it this year. “Oh! Bring that guy you’re dating. It’s about time I met him. I want to make sure he’s a good match for you.”

“I’m not sure about that,” I demur. “We’ve only been dating a little over a month, so I don’t want to spook him.”

“You’re not getting any younger, Megan. It’s time for you to settle down.” Jasmine’s eight years older than I am, and she was a second mother to me after our father left when I was three, and my mother started quietly drinking herself to death. That’s why I put up with Jasmine talking to me as if I’m an idiot, but only for a limited amount of time.

“It’s been a month,” I reiterate, keeping my voice even. “He probably wants to go to his mother’s, anyway.”

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Marital Duplicity; chapter thirteen, part two

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After lunch, I do the dishes while Rembrandt goes up to take a shower. I don’t mind him still being in the house, much to my surprise. I would have thought I’d be itching to have him leave by this time, but I’m not. It’s only having him in my bed that I’m not keen on, but the rest of it? I’m not unpleased to have him around. Ginger, Onyx, and Jet are chirping at me as I go to the living room. I chirp back at them. I throw a catnip mouse to each of them, and I watch in amusement as they go nuts over their prey. Onyx starts zooming after ingesting her nip, whereas Jet lies on his back and waves his massive paws in the air. Ginger’s eyes are dilated as she chases after Onyx. I laugh as Ginger pounces on Onyx, and Onyx whaps Ginger across the nose. They scrap with their claws retracted, so I let them have at it. Jet is rotating his paws in the air, and I start giggling helplessly at how ridiculous he looks. He has a goofy grin on his face as he waves ‘em like he just don’t care. Five minutes later, Rembrandt comes down the stairs, shirtless. I eye his chest with appreciation as he towels his hair.

“Look at the crazy cats!” I say, pointing at Onyx and Ginger, who are still scrapping. Jet is still waving his paws in the air, and Rembrandt laughs with me as he sits next to me on the couch. We both check out phones as we cuddle, but there’s not much going on. I’m still ignoring politics, and I don’t really care about football because I’m a Vikings fan, albeit a casual one. No matter how good they are in the beginning, they find a way to fuck it up in the end. Onyx and Ginger race around us in circles while Jet gives up his ‘dancing’ and falls asleep. He always crashes hard after a nip high, and he sleeps for a very long time. Onyx and Ginger tire themselves out after a half hour, and they collapse in a heap next to Jet and promptly fall asleep.

“This is nice,” Rembrandt says, nuzzling my cheek and placing his hand on my thigh. He squeezes it affectionately, but there’s no lust in it. I rub his knee as I nuzzle him back.

“It is,” I say, a hint of surprise in my voice. I’m not much of a domesticated person, but there’s something to be said about having someone to cuddle with.

“We could do this more often if we moved in together,” Rembrandt says casually. I stiffen at the suggestion, but I don’t want to argue.

“I’m not ready for that,” I say with a gentle smile. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for it, but I don’t tell him that.

“OK. I just want to put it out there that I wouldn’t mind.” Rembrandt squeezes my knee, but doesn’t press the issue.

“Duly noted,” I say, kissing him on the cheek. I’m relieved that he’s not being a dick about it, and he has the right to state his needs. I have the right to say that I don’t want to live together, too. It’s not a huge problem right now, but I know it will be soon. He’ll start pressing for us to spend more time together, and he won’t be satisfied with stayovers every few days. I can maybe put up with having him spend the night two to three times a week, but not much more than that. I sigh a small sigh, but Rembrandt hears me.

“I’m not pushing—honestly,” Rembrandt says, kissing me on the forehead.

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Marital Duplicity; chapter twelve, part two

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I’ve been thinking about sex a lot lately. It’s supposedly a natural act, and yet, we make such hash about it. By we, I mean we humans. We make it convoluted and complicated, sometimes sucking the joy right out of it. We’ve infused it with sanctimony and put ridiculous constraints on it. It’s a wonder we have sex at all.

I’ve been told I’m not womanly because I don’t think sex has to be coupled with love in order to be enjoyable. It’s a tired trope that men can have sex without feelings, but that a woman cannot. I once told a female friend of mine that I would look at people on the street and think about whether I would have sex with them or not. She was aghast and told me women didn’t do that. I looked at her as if she had grown another head. She was saying to my face that what I said I did, I didn’t actually do. Or else, she was telling me that I was not a woman. Later, in talking to another female friend, she said she did the same thing. I shouldn’t have needed the outside collaboration, but it was a relief to know that I wasn’t the only one. I feel like a freak much of the time, and I don’t need someone calling me a liar to my face.

I learned a long time ago that I think about sex differently than most women. I have a high libido, and I would love to have sex every day. I’ve been very upfront with potential partners about how much I love sex, and most men are intrigued and titillated—at first. But, then when they realize I actually mean what I said, they freak out. They get hung up on thinking that they can’t satisfy me, and nothing I could say would reassure them. Sometime in my thirties, I realized what produced this gap in expectation. Many of my male ex-partners have been with women who weren’t truthful about how much they liked sex. They made their partners feel like twice a week was a lot. So, when I said I wanted sex every day, they assumed I was exaggerating. Then, when I proved I was actually as horny I said I was, that threw my partners for a loop.

It’s frustrating as hell to not be taken seriously. I don’t know if my ex-partners were just too happy to get into my pants to pay attention to what I was saying or if they really thought I was exaggerating, but I learned pretty quick not to take a man at face value when he said he loved a woman with a high sex drive. I’ve only had one male partner who matched me in that department, sadly. Ironically, I’ve had no problems with my female partners, which is my anecdotal proof that women are just as into sex as men are, if not more.

I write two more thousand words because I have plenty to say on this subject. I wish I had known when I was in my early twenties that my high libido wasn’t a fluke or a flaw. I wasted too many years worrying about hurting my (male) partner’s ego in the sack, and I refuse to do it any longer. Any man who feels threatened by my ‘insatiable’ need for sex isn’t welcome in my bed. So far, Rembrandt has been willing and able every time I want to have sex, but we’ll see if that continues. In several of my past relationships, the sex had been plentiful and hot in the first few weeks before it fell off. It’s hard to tell with Rembrandt because we met under inauspicious circumstances. We met at First  Ave, and then Julianna was murdered a few days later. I saw Rembrandt a few times after that, but then his eye was gouged out in an attack by my stalker. He spent most of his time the week after rehabbing, but he managed to squeeze me in a few times. We didn’t have sex that first week he was home from the hospital, but we did, carefully, the second. I still don’t know how often he’d prefer to have sex, but I’ve made it clear that I want it as often as possible.

I get several responses to my latest post. SassyBrunette writes, “I’m a woman in my late thirties, and I only date guys in their early twenties because they can get it up early and often. The one time I dated a guy my age, he was in bed by ten-thirty after watching the news, and he was satisfied to have sex three times a week. I dumped his ass after three months of that bullshit. Right now, my paramour is a twenty-year-old sophomore studying biology. MINE!” AloneButNotLonely says, “I’m a single woman in my late fifties. Back when I was a teenagers, girls were supposed to say no whenever they were pressed for sex. The trouble was, I never wanted to say no; I always wanted to say yes. Which I did more often than not. That got me in trouble with my parents who didn’t want a slut for a daughter. They sent me off to boarding school for the rest of high school. Girls only. There were teachers, though, and some of them were male—and willing to get it on with a randy teenage girl. Fast-forward thirty-plus years, and you’ll find me on my couch watching the NFL more often than not, alone. When I do have company, it’s only for a night—two at the most. I like my privacy and plenty of legroom.” JackinIt contributes, “I am a guy in my forties, and I’ve always had a hard time with the idea that men are supposed to want sex all the time. My last three girlfriends dumped me because I’d rather talk about Nietzsche and Flaubert than have sex any day of the week. One of them called me a faggot, saying I must be into men because I wouldn’t even look at her. Truth be told, she disgusted me with her voracious appetites for Iris Johansen books and reality TV shows. I’m better off when I’m alone.”

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Marital Duplicity; chapter seven, part two

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“Reverend Yang. Thank you so much for seeing me. I know it’s late.” I hold my hand out to the reverend, and he shakes it with enthusiasm.

“Megan. It’s good to see you.” His eyes are glued to my admittedly impressive bosom, which I have on prominent display. I’m wearing a snug-fitting, bright red dress that falls just below my thighs. The good reverend’s eyes travel downwards and settle on the tattoo of my left ankle.

“They’re the initials of my best friend,” I offer. “She was…she died a few weeks ago.” Tears spring to my eyes, and they’re genuine.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Reverend Yang says, forcing his eyes back to my face. “Please. Have a seat.” He gestures at the black velvet couch in the corner of his office. His wife is nowhere to be found, and I don’t ask. I sit on the couch and arrange my legs so my dress falls to the side. As he’s distracted, I pull out my phone and place it, camera-side up on the couch in the crack between cushions. Reverend Yang pulls his ergonomic chair next to me and stares into my eyes. Normally, I would find that off-putting, but it’s soothing coming from him.

“I know I only met you this morning, Reverend, but I feel as if I’ve known you forever.” I bat my lashes up at Reverend Yang, and, predictably, he melts.

“Call me Marcus.” He pats my shoulder several times before removing his hand.

“I can’t do that, Reverend Yang. It wouldn’t be respectful.” I lean forward so Reverend Yang can see that I’m not wearing a bra. I can tell he appreciates that mightily as his cock stiffens under his chinos. Something is rising in this church, but it’s not Jesus. Reverend Yang clears his throat before speaking.

“Megan. Please tell me what has brought you here this evening.”

“It’s my boyfriend, Reverend Yang,” I say, forcing tears to my eyes. “I’m afraid he’s…seeing another woman.” I touch my eyes with a newly-bought handkerchief, careful not to smudge my mascara. Yes, I even put on makeup for this occasion. I should take a picture for posterity.

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Marital Duplicity; chapter one

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Taiji is my sanctuary, and I need it more than ever right now. I’ve had the worst few weeks of my life in which my best friend has been murdered and my lover has been brutally attacked. The absolute worst part is that their attacker is someone who thought she was in love with me and wanted to eliminate the competition. I haven’t slept since she confronted me at work, and I managed to fend off her attack with the aid of taiji. I’m barely holding on, and if I didn’t have taiji and my cats, I probably would have killed myself.

“Let’s do the first section,” Lydia says, and we all move to our places on the floor. We don’t have designated spots, but we all tend to go to the same place as we are creatures of habit. I take the front left corner as is my wont and wait for Lydia to start. I’ve been studying taiji for seven years, and I attend classes three days a week in part because I’m not as diligent as I should be about practicing on a daily basis. I’m better now than when I first started, however, as I never practiced at home during the first two years. “I’ll say the names of the postures; try to stick together. Take your time, and enjoy.” We start the first section of the Solo Form, and I try to empty my mind of all thoughts. It’s not easy, however, as the Solo Form is my least favorite part of taiji. It’s a shame because it’s the basis for everything else we do, but I can’t help what I like and don’t like. The Solo Form is mostly for health and meditation, two things that I don’t care about. I mean, I’m glad taiji is beneficial to my health and my mental health, but I care more about the applications. Although right now, my mental health could do with some shoring up.

I focus on my waist, making sure to turn it correctly. In taiji, the hands rarely move on their own—if ever. We’re supposed to turn our waist to move our hands as it gives more power to every strike, block, and chop. When I do it correctly, it feels as if I’m doing nothing. Lydia says that’s how you know you’re doing it right—when it’s effortless. Taiji is the lazy person’s martial art in which you want to expend as little effort as possible for the biggest possible result. I’m satisfied with my first section, though it’s not my best. Afterwards, we have a ten minute break, during which I sip water from my iced water bottle and listen to my classmates chatter about nothing in particular. I must be giving off a ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibes because no one tries to talk to me. I’m grateful as I don’t feel particularly conversational.

After the break, Lydia asks me to lead the more advanced students in the Sword Form while she works on the Solo Form with the newer students. The Sword Form is my favorite, so I relish any chance I get to practice it. I’ve taught myself the left side of the form at home because that’s the way Lydia’s teacher insists it be done. His rationale is that if you know the right side, you can teach yourself the left side. Any weaknesses you have on the right side will show up in learning the left side. I had little problem teaching myself the left side of the Sword Form, but I’m struggling with the left side of the Solo Form. How like me to prefer the hard to the easy, which is the reason the kick section is my favorite part of the Solo Form.

Once we’re done with the Sword Form, Lydia has us do the entire Solo Form to music. She’s doing it less these days since her teacher is moving away from it, but she still does it once in a while. I like it because it’s faster than we normally do the Solo Form, but many of my classmates disagree. We put the newbies in the middle of the group so they can have someone to watch no matter which way we’re facing. People think taiji is relaxing and meditative, and it is, but it’s also a real workout if you do it properly. My back always aches by the third section, and it’s something that I’m currently working on. I concentrate on making sure my back knee is over my toes, which is another bad habit of mine—overextending my knee. I’m tired by the time we’re done, but also satisfied. My back is aching, but it doesn’t hurt—I chalk that up as a win. After class, I wait for the rest of my classmates to leave so I can chat with Lydia for a few minutes.

“How’re you feeling these days, Megan?” Lydia asks as she goes behind a divider to change into her street clothes. “You’ve had a rough go of it these last few weeks.”

“I’m hanging in. I miss Julianna like hell, though, and I still feel terrible about Rembrandt’s eye.”

“I know it’s been tough on you, but you can’t blame yourself for either event. It was that crazy woman’s fault-not yours.” Lydia’s voice is muffled, and I can barely understand what she’s saying.

“I know, but it if wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have attacked either of them.” That’s my prevailing nightmare, that I’m the one who brought the misfortune to my best friend and my lover. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m OK. Roger is worried because construction is down right now, but we’re scraping by.” Lydia emerges from behind the division, her face weary. We chat for a few minutes before leaving. I hug her and climb into my car, ready to go home.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter thirteen, part one

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Chapter Twelve; Part One

The next day, as I’m driving to work, I have the strangest feeling that I’m being followed. I check my mirrors several times, but there’s nothing suspicious. I’m probably being paranoid because of everything that has happened in the last week, but I double-check again. Nothing. When I pull into the parking lot, I hunch my shoulders as I lock my door. I whip my head around, but there is no one there. I hurry into the building, irrationally glad to get out of the open. I go to the office floor and sit at my desk. I frown again. My coffee cup isn’t in the same place as where I normally put it, and several of my pens have been disturbed. I look at my computer, but nothing seems out of order there. I quickly check my files, but there’s nothing there. I still have five minutes, so I check the local news on my phone. The Strib. To my surprise, there’s a picture of Rembrandt on the front page. Does he have a show he never mentioned to me? I read the article, and my surprise turns to horror. He was attacked in front of his house early this morning on his way to his first client. He managed to fight off his attacker, but not before the attacker gouged out his (brown) eye. Rembrandt was rushed to Abbott Northwestern, and I have to get to him now. I run into Cara’s office. Fortunately, she’s not busy, so I tell her I need to take off. She’s not happy about it, but she lets me go. I promise her I’ll make it up to her, and I leave. My thoughts are racing as I speed towards Abbott Northwestern. How can this be happening again? Who the hell would attack Rembrandt?

“I need to see Rembrandt. Rembrandt DiCampo,” I say to the nurse at the front desk.

“Only family is allowed,” the nurse says, looking up at me. Her tone is brisk, but not unsympathetic.

“Can you at least tell me how he is?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.” The nurse nods at me. I’m about to leave when I remember that Simon is still here. I get a nurse to give me directions to his room and make my way over there. Trinity is in the waiting area, and I go sit by her as she dozes.

“How is he?” I ask Trinity, startling her into sitting upright.

“He’s bad, but the doctors say he’ll be fine,” Trinity says after she wakes up a bit. “If he stays off the drugs, stays away from old associates, etc., etc., etc.” Trinity and I exchange glances. We both know how likely that is about to happen.

“May I talk to him?” I ask Trinity, holding my breath. There’s no reason for her to say yes, but to my surprise, she does.

“Go on in. No one else has visited him.” Trinity’s shoulders droop, and I know she thinks she has to be there for him because he has no one else. It’s not my job, but I feel somewhat responsible for her.

“You don’t have to do this, Trinity,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder. She leans into it before pulling away.

“He has no one else.” Trinity’s voice is weary, and I think she’s near the edge of leaving; I just have to find the right words to push her over, so to speak. I think about my options, then I speak.

“I know you feel responsible for him. I know you think he’s alone and has no one else. That can be a powerful drug for people who like to help other people.” I pause to see how she’s reacting. She’s looking at me and is leaning slightly toward me, so that’s a good sign. “The problem is, and this is tough love, a guy like that will drag you down before you can pull him up.” Trinity flinches, but she doesn’t say anything. “I have tried so many times. Lord knows. I’ve lost count. Every time I think I can save someone, not only have I lost that person, but I’ve lost parts of myself as well.”

“I need to leave him,” Trinity says softly. “I know that, but—”

“No buts,” I say firmly. “You’re going to say you should at least be there for him through this. But, there’s always something with a man like him. You know that.” I pat her hand before standing up. “I’ll be right back.” I stride towards Simon’s room and stop before entering it. I never told Julianna, but I smelled rot coming off of Simon the few times I’ve met him. I walk in, and the smell lingers. Simon’s head is wrapped, his arm is in a cast, and his face is all puffy. I can’t tell if he’s sleeping or if his eyes are just swollen shut.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter eight, part two

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Chapter Eight; Part Two

I take a long, luxurious shower then stand in front of my closet to decide what to wear. I have plenty of time before my date, but I want to make sure I look tip-top. I haven’t dated in five years, and I’m nervous. I pull out one outfit after another, rejecting each of them for flaws only I can see. One dress is too short, but the next is too long. One blouse is too frilly, and the next is too plain. I finally settle on a pair of crimson velour pants that flare at the hems and ride low under my belly paired with an emerald green silk blouse that shows an appreciable amount of cleavage. I put large gold hoops in my ears and declare myself done. I shake my hair out so it falls gently to my waist. I am conscious of the thirty extra pounds padding my body, but I clean up nicely if I say so myself. I still have an hour and a half before I have to leave, so I go downstairs to brew myself a hot cup of Earl Grey. The cats are right at my heels, assuming they’re going to get more treats. They are sadly mistaken, but I’ll give them a few each before I head out to Victory 44. I’m meeting Rembrandt at the restaurant because it’s my policy not to relinquish driving control on a first date. If things go badly, I want to be able to leave at any time. Hopefully, it won’t come to that, but I’ve been in dicey situations before, and I don’t intend to ever be in a similar one again. I watch episodes of Iron Chef America until I have to leave. I stop at Walgreens to pick up some condoms on my way to the restaurant—I like to be prepared.

“Megan. You look fantastic.” Rembrandt can’t take his eyes off of me as I approach the table. Once again, I’m struck by his David Bowie eyes, which are filled with lust.

“You look terrific, too,” I reply, looking him up and down. He’s wearing black khakis and a dark brown button-down with the top two buttons unbuttoned. His hair is slicked back, but there’s a cowlick that refuses to be subdued.

“I’m famished,” I say as I sit down. I haven’t eaten since breakfast as I skipped lunch in anticipation of dinner. I glance at the menu, but I’m sticking with the Spicy Clams & Spaghetti. Rembrandt orders the Perfect Burger, so I resolve to steal a bite or ten.

“How are you feeling?” Rembrandt asks, concern shining in his eyes. “You must still be in shock over your friend’s death.”

“I am,” I say, my heart suddenly heavy. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I know it’s trite, but it’s true.” I shake off the gloom with effort. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. We’re on a date. Tell me about your day.”

“I had the craziest client in the afternoon!” With that, he’s off. He only stops when the server brings our dinners. The spaghetti is amazing, and Rembrandt’s burger is, indeed, perfect. We have the Banana & Peanut Butter for dessert, which is a great way to cap off dinner. I find out that Rembrandt enjoys Tarantino films, but no one’s perfect. I wax rhapsodic for my love of musicals, which he doesn’t care much for, I can tell by the look in his eyes. We both agree that superhero movies are overdone, but that doesn’t stop either of us from loving graphic novels. We spend a large chunk of the evening talking about our respective cats, and the time flies by. I feel a stirring in my pussy that I have a hard time ignoring. After dessert, we have a light-hearted squabble about who’s going to pay the bill. Rembrandt insists, saying I can pay the next time. I allow him the win this time, and we leave with our arms around each other.

“Nightcap?” He asks, lifting his eyebrow as we near my car.

“Yes,” I say.

“It’s in Loring Park. Follow me.” He watches as I get into my car before getting into his. I take a second to text Liz with Rembrandt’s deets, and she immediately responds with a thumbs up. Then, I follow Rembrandt to his house. We’re there before I know it. I’m nervous because it’s been many years since I’d had sex with a man. I’m not sure how good I’ll be around the equipment. I sigh and get out of the car, locking it behind me. I’m just going to assume it’s like riding a bike, and I’m going to have a good time doing it.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter two, part two

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Chapter Two; Part Two

“Mrrrrrreow!” Onyx weaves her way through my legs as I stand up, almost tripping me in the process.

“Onyx!” I scold her, but my heart isn’t in it. How can I be mad at her when all she wants to do is love me? She butts her head against my shin several times before I scoop her up in my arm. I grab the mug and the bowl with my other hand as best possible to take them into the kitchen. I set Onyx on the counter before washing the dishes. I go to the living room and flop on the couch. I should write my post on NE Minneapolis eateries, but I’m suddenly tired. Sleep is spotty for me. Sometimes, I get seven solid hours a night, and other times, I wake up every other hour and give up after four. Last night was one of the latter, in part because I was waiting for Julianna to text me—which she finally did at five in the morning. She didn’t give me many details because she’s not the type to kiss and tell, but she did let slip that she had a date with Ramona tomorrow, now today. Julianna is a slam poet with plenty of family money to back her up, so she doesn’t have to work a nine-to-five like us plebes. To be totally fair, I don’t really have to work, either, but I like having a schedule that gets me out of the house five days a week.

I drift off on the couch, my dreams filled with malevolent fairies. For some reason, they want to bite all my flesh off, which is agonizingly painful, believe you me. I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart racing. Jet growls in protest from his seat on my lap as I jostle him out of his nap. Onyx doesn’t move from her spot mashed into my right thigh, so I poke her to make sure she’s breathing. She remains inert, so I poke her again. This time, she hisses sleepily before coiling tightly into a ball. I lift Jet from my lap and set him next to Onyx. He wraps himself around her and falls asleep again. I ease myself away from her and tiptoe into the bathroom. I feel grimy, so I take a shower, leaving the bathroom door open. By the time I’m done, both cats are sitting on the counter, staring at me in concern. It cracks me up that this is their reaction to me taking a shower. I can only imagine that they’re thinking, “Why does she take off her fur and allow water to splash all over her?” I could swear they’re shaking their heads minutely as I towel off, which cracks me up. I stick my tongue out at them before pulling on a fresh pair of gray sweats and a red Obama t-shirt. I turn the faucet on a crack so Onyx can lap at the water. Jet turns his attention to her and is now looking at her as if she’s crazy. He cannot stand water touching his fur at all, so it fascinates him that Onyx will stick her  paw in the stream and lick the drops off it.

“Treats?” I quirk my eyebrows at my cats, and they hop off the counter with alacrity. It’s one of the words that they know, and it’s guaranteed to spur them into action. They race towards the kitchen, and I follow at a more sedate pace, wrapping a scrunchie around my hair. I open the fridge and pull out some salmon. I give them each a healthy chunk, and they gobble them down. I toast a bagel, smear some cream cheese on it, then add some salmon on top of it. It’s a decadent treat that I don’t eat very often, but I enjoy every bite when I do.

I hear a ping on my Nexus 5X, and it’s an email from Rembrandt. He says he’s thinking of me and hoping I’m doing OK. I reply that I am and ask how he’s doing. I enable my chat on Google so we can message, and I spend the next hour finding out more information about him. He’s the oldest of three boys, whereas I am the middle sister, also of three. My older sister, Jasmine, lives in Minnesota as well, whereas my younger sister, Vivian, fled the state the minute she turned eighteen to attend art school in Boston and never came back. Rembrandt’s thirty-two, which is thirteen years my junior. That makes me a little uneasy, but the fact that he knows his Toni Morrison from his Maxine Hong Kingston assuages my doubts a little. He’s a huge Vikings fan, which is fine with me. I can watch a ball game and comment on it knowledgably, even if it’s not something I’d choose to watch myself. I’m always happy for Minnesotan fans when the home teams do well, but I’m not devastated when they lose. I remember the season in which the Vikes went 15-1. They made it the NFC championship against Atlanta and was widely expected to take it easily. They lost in the last seconds, which was especially heartbreaking for local fans. At the beginning of the next season, the news interviewed a guy dressed in Vikings gear, who talked about how crushed he still felt about the loss. I wanted to shout at him to get a life, but who am I to judge someone else’s emotions? I’m still mourning the death of Alan Rickman, and I never even knew him in real life. I’m sure there are plenty of people who would scorn my grief and say it isn’t real. I don’t pretend to think what I feel for the loss of Alan is anything close to how his loved ones must feel, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

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