Dinner in New York

A Story by Aideen Casey

1040 words.

Dusk in New York. My favourite time at my favourite place. Everyone is always so blind at this time �" so easily deceived by the quaint awnings over the family restaurants, or even something as simple as the sun bouncing off the windows, illuminating the dancing dust in between the buildings. But this facade deteriorates upon sunset, when light is replaced by darkness �" the icon of New York’s grisly underworld. Proof? Me. I’m watching my victim from my wall right now. This revenge will be bliss.

I was beginning to think he actually left, being out of sight for what seems like weeks. I thought he found his wits and decided to leave town and never look back on, what could have been, a gruesome ending to his life �" but there he is. Now that gruesome ending is my Saturday night.

He’s in his usual spot, milling around the pavement, looking for food to keep him alive for just another night. So pathetic. He’s just prolonging his impending doom. The inevitable finally occurs: our eyes finding each other. Suddenly that glint in his eye, that urge to live, fades like smoke dissipating into the sky. Now only a morbid, cheerless thing remains: a will to die. Not to die by my gory, ruthless deeds, but to die right there, on that pavement square, right now. Because he knows that nothing remains for him except for a brutal, nightmarish ending. Oh, yes. How I love that look in their eyes. It makes me feel young, causes adrenaline to ricochet through me. Tonight, we dance.

Of course, he flees. They always do. They think they have the upper hand, think they’re faster and swifter than me. They may be right, but one thing they lack is boldness �" that sly disposition and lethal ingenuity that I was born with. I know exactly where he’s headed. He’ll go somewhere high, so that he’ll have the advantage of seeing me from the streets and also it’ll enable him to be prepared and waiting for me if I come- when I come. Plus, he’ll go somewhere where he’s comfortable, where he knows the place well enough to feel safe. I deduce he’ll go to the top apartment right across the street. I often saw him on the balcony and also, maybe he’s feebly attempting to outsmart me by choosing such a close place to hide �" the last time we tangoed he went all the way to Central Park, so he might be changing his futile methods.

I jump down from the wall without haste and, similarly, swagger across the road unhurriedly. The squeal of breaks disturbs my ears as 2 yellow taxi cabs halt in front of me. The brainless cabdrivers stick their heads out the windows, shouting profanities and acting as if I should care that I’m stifling their 3 block journey. I decided to cease my strut in the middle of the road to glare at both of them, not a sound leaving my mouth. My greatest ability in my glaring prowess is that it communicates my annoyance. It denounces that they have a right to even look at me, let alone yell at me. It can freeze water, as well as burn and bore into their eyes. It’s a messenger that tells them that I run this town, not them. When they understand that I won’t move until their rudeness diminishes, they sit back in their seats until I reach the sidewalk. I can’t stand insolent people like them, but I always win in our affairs.

I don’t take the stairs to the top apartment �" that would be too obvious. Instead I go to the gable of the building, which is aligned with neat but filthy layers of red bricks. It’s as smooth as a dove’s breast and almost, but not quite the colour of blood. A fire escape sprawled with rust is there and I’m able to cling onto the railing if I use the wall as support to jump. From there, it’s easy �" I push my body onto the surface of the fire escape, tread softly up the stairs and then, on the floor second from the top, I notice something through the minute apertures in the surface above. It’s him.

He’s right above my head on the top level of the fire escape, his shadow dappling through the holes on the surface. I know he can’t see me, but I cautiously keep my pose static, not even daring to blink. His eyes are cast onto the street, most likely on the lookout for me �" obviously not doing a very good job at it.

When I’m no longer in his field of view, I nimbly creep up the stairs until I’m just behind him, but not so close as though my shadow will disclose my presence. I seize the moment to contemplate all the things I can do to him, now that he’s mine. Well, he’s always been mine �" ever since he intruded on my property. If he wanted to enter my property, then that’s exactly what he is: my property. And I can do whatever I want with my property �" to whatever fiendish and devilish degree I choose.

I toy with two options in particular. They twist and fight inside me, like trying to win a tug of war. Wary not to waste time, I decide on the more fun (obviously more fun for me, not for him) option. I prowl up to him, striving to stay skilfully silent and to contain my exhilaration, when-

‘Whiskers! Dinner, Whiskers!’

My ears prick up and my eyes widen �" it’s my owner. My precedent firm composure is lost with excitement and my stomach abruptly grumbles, causing my victim to suddenly turn around. Our eyes only meet for a split second before he flies off into the stratas of the sky. But in that split second I know that I caused fear to leap inside of him. He knows that he still isn’t safe from being plucked, that I’ll still be a watchful predator until he dies by my paws. He knows that I’m still the king of this town and that he’ll never dare enter my garden again. But for now, its dinner time.