Winding Down

summary: Oasis O’Flann chills out at her apartment after a stressful day.

word count: 586

a/n: This is pre-fog! I just wanted to write something chill for once lol, enjoy! #WritersCircle

I toss my keys into the dish as I push my front door closed with my butt, leaning up against it and sighing.

“Mrow!” Honey calls, and I can hear her collar jingle as she jumps down from my bed (well, futon, but still) to come greet me.

I give her a tired smile and slide down into a sitting position. “Hi, pretty girl, I missed you. Do you want to eat some food while I clean myself up?”

“Mrrp!” She responds, but I’m sure all she’s doing is cussing me out in cat language because I dared to leave her alone for four hours today. To be fair, when your life expectancy is fifteen years, four hours is a lot longer than if your life expectancy is seventy years. The strength feels like it’s been leached from my bones, but I push myself up, heading to the kitchen. I grab out a can of wet food, deciding Honey deserves a treat for being so patient today, and open the can up for her, setting it on the floor and letting her get to work.

I trudge over to my bathroom and turn on the shower to a temperature that would melt the men that believe ‘trickle-down’ is more than just a failed economic theory, leaving the door open just a crack so Honey doesn’t scream at me for locking her out, and I hop in, turning on some music from The Trickster. Sure, his music isn’t exactly calming, but it’s haunting in a way, and I’ve always wondered how he creates such realistic-sounding screams. If I ever went into the music industry, meeting him would be an aspiration of mine, for sure.

After the shower, my raggedy, faded towels, once fluffy and white, cocoon my hair and body as I lather my body in cocoa butter and a woody cologne. As I wash my face, I feel the familiar sensation of silky soft fur rubbing against my calves and smile. “Hi, Honeybunny. Was your food yummy?” Her purrs give me all the answer I need. “Tonight I’m thinking I eat some more of that spinach and cheese tortellini, and we can watch another documentary.” I know I’m only talking to myself, really, but Honey is a good listener.

My apartment is tiny, so I only take a few paces after changing into my pajamas to reach the kitchenette. I swing open the fridge door and grab out the prepped food, spilling the contents into a bowl and popping it into the microwave. As the microwaves hums, I turn on my TV, and pull up Netflix. Right in my recommended is a recently added documentary. Zarina Kassir is credited as the director, filmographer, and the everything-elser. It looks good, so I decide to start it, pausing it so I can enjoy it with my food. The microwave beeps, and I grab my tray, grabbing my bowl and a spoon, along with a can of v8 and a glass of water. It’s during times like these that I’m glad I live in a state with such clean water, otherwise I’d be shit out of luck.

I sit criss-cross on my bed, tray in my lap, remote off to my left, and I pause. I look over at the Bible gathering dust on my nightstand, and feeling the nagging voice of my mom reminding me to pray before I eat. I push it out of my mind and press play, chowing down to the tune of exposing corruption.