Foreword

This story is a continuation of my previous story Black and White, so if you haven’t already read it, you should read it first. Or don’t. I’m not the boss of you.
All previous warnings apply. That is, people are going to be doing perverted stuff, and if you get off on that, you’re a sicko.
Unfortunately, there’s no Jake Gyllenhaal in this one, but imagine that May looks sort of like Jennifer Aniston, if Jennifer Aniston was a horse. Okay? Thanks.

A note on expectations: Artists either repeat themselves and get called stagnant, or they reinvent themselves and get called sellouts. This won’t be the same story, and it won’t be something completely new and inventive. It was just something I felt like writing.

A note on genetics and world-building: Though I avoid mentioning “feral” animals, assume that they all still exist. The anthropomorphic variants can all breed among each other. I choose to handle it as such; the off-spring will always be of the same species as the mother, though the father’s traits can still be in the mix. This means sleeping around is not nearly as risky as one could imagine. Specific species will still be prevalent in specific geographical regions, meaning that same-species relationships are still far more likely. I make no physiological distinctions between predator and prey animals; it is predominantly aesthetic and loosely tied to personality. Diets are that of humans; cows eat burgers. As for the theory of evolution, for all intents and purposes, it doesn’t exist; God created all the current incarnations of species, and they will never change. Also, the Earth is flat.

The Trials					
By Meowmere

Chapter 1 – The Actor

Oh, I don't know if I've mentioned...
My name is Charlie. I have a bad habit of adhering to Platonism when I recount my life; my mother is the only mother, my sister the only sister.
Of course, this crumbles the moment other people enter the equation. Though I'd wish for it time and time again, I can't live in a tiny bubble, a glass bell shaking with my own thoughts. There are lives aplenty that impose on mine. And as I've grown older, I'm getting closer to accepting it.
My mother’s name is Daisy. She has remarried to an older dog. He’s rich, so she’s effectively retired early. I think she’s sleeping around. Or… I know she is. With me at least. He doesn’t know, but even if he did, I don’t think there would be hell to pay. With others, I mean. I’m sure she can’t for all that is holy let him know she’s sleeping with her son. Though I don’t think he pays enough attention for it to be a risk.
She says she’s too old to be looking for “puppy love”, and he seems satisfied enough with having a pretty doll to waltz around with on the golf course among his business partners.
You’d think this meant that I could sit on my flat ass and play Dark Souls until I died, riding on their tailcoats. Until about a year ago, it might have been like that. It might be that my mother was genuinely concerned for us. That us all staying beneath the same roof brought on bad memories of what our debauchery could end up in. Or it could be because of the other incident. Probably both.
My sister's name is Dalia. It means “gentle”, and through her sharp remarks, that’s how I have always thought of her. I haven’t seen her for a year. I think I ended up falling in love with her. At least being without her leaves me hollow, in a way.
What happened was that she got pregnant. She was seventeen at the time. I don’t know when our mother had begun catching on to her aversion to using protection during our… escapades. But Dalia getting pregnant was the nail in the coffin, at least. Part of the issue was that she wasn’t even sure that I was the father. There was one or two boys at school… But I’m fairly sure it was me. Her and I were at it, sweating and panting, hours at a time when mother was out of the house. And of course, when feelings rose to their highest, porn blaring on the TV, her gagged with her underwear and a cucumber up her ass, we would… “forget” the condom.
We had to come clean. We considered running off, but I think it was mostly in jest. We couldn’t just up and leave our mother’s life. Not after what we had been through.
Daisy wasn’t furious. She was at odds with herself, not sure how to feel, but we weren’t put under any harsh words.
Dalia got an abortion. Not exactly common for girls her age, but it still went over well enough. We were relieved, but sad in a way. We knew it made sense not to raise a child. She would have to give up on becoming a gymnast. But we still joked silently about how the kid would have turned out. 
We were to spend time apart. I was to get my own apartment, on the stipulation that I got myself a job. Apparently a crucial part of not “wasting away”. Mother would pay rent, so my salary would feel higher. Dalia, well on her way to become a renowned gymnast, were to seize the opportunity to spend a year abroad with her school’s athletics team, “The Howland High Hounds”.
This was the rational side of my mother talking. I know she feels regret for letting loose back when my father was around. While I could practically smell on her that she was aroused at the thought of my baby inside Dalia, she reigned herself, a thing she still gets better at every day.
His name was Jake. She misses him. And she loves and hates it. She understands why I killed him. That doesn’t mean I didn’t kill a part of her that day too.
Has what happened when I was younger traumatized me? How could it not? I have social anxiety of a sort. I shiver at inopportune times and snap at people for seemingly trivial opinions. They don’t open their soft-boiled eggs right. They leave the crust of their pizzas.
That's all perfectly normal behavior on my part, isn't it? I don't know then. I have nightmares about him at times. But the things he put me through. They also get me hard. Yes, that's certainly trauma, but trauma that I can live with. What actually traumatized me, in my own humble opinion, was the need for work, and how I needed to amount to something. Oh, please. Some days, I’d rather die.
By the end of high school, I did not feel like studying for anything. Mother suggested that I tried my hand at philosophy or something bookish, since I always seemed to have backhanded insight in this and that.
But philosophy is a useless endeavor. It’s not like you make money off it. You talk about shit, but you don't get shit done. While I'm not good at the latter, I feel like I should be. I feel like I should be good at fucking too, but when I’ve done it with anyone but the two of them, it’s been awkward and unfulfilling. That is, there was this bunny girl at a party, and there was alcohol involved, and my performance suffered, to say the least. 
Besides, I can't very well make a profession out of that, can I? Becoming a porn star seems outright naïve. Even if the size of my dick is starting to let on that I’m my father’s son. Drawing or writing erotica seems unambitious at best.
So when my sister left, I started job hunting, not particularly sure what I was searching for. I ended up landing a position in customer service for a company selling furcare products. Besides having a way with words when I want to and above average cognition, my primary qualification was probably being willing to take some amount of shit before snapping. A quality evidently in short supply.
“No, sir, we cannot offer you a refund because you didn’t realize using the entire bottle in one serving was retarded.”
“No, mam, the reason the lotion is not achieving the desired result is because pigs don’t have fur.”
…Are things I want to say, but don’t get to, except on rare occasions. My boss, May, a stubborn horse a few years younger than my mother, isn’t the sort to insist that the customer is always right, but I realize I have to play the part still.
Her strong legs, rugged fur, and hard eyes makes me not entirely dissatisfied with her ordering me around. Many of my work hours pass by more easily with me imagining throwing her over her desk and using the lotion samples to lube up her asshole before riding her sore. I might cum in her lunchbox one of these days, if the fridge is left unattended. Of course, I know the slightest suspicion would get me fired, and I don’t want to disappoint my mother.
My coworkers are nice, except for this one guy who is an ass. Literally.
I make money, which feels good in itself, and I suppose being tired makes coming home to my video games more rewarding after all.
But I have to admit… A year going by without Dalia has worn me down. I turn twenty next month and I feel old. I think a psychologist would diagnose depression without much investigation. Maybe I should get some of those pills. But I fear that a little smooth talk on a professional’s part would dig up a casket of worms that would just make a mess that none of us would have the heart to clean up.
I worry a lot. Over nothing, I feel. And I suspect I’m going through the exact stages that made my father the man he was the time up until I buried an axe between his eyes.

My sister is coming home next week, and I’m terrified. That is to say, I’m not exactly in touch with my emotions. I could be either excited or afraid. My body is certainly reacting; my stomach is upset and I have issues concentrating on being productive. Of course, this happens regularly, but I’m fairly sure it’s worse now. Enough that earlier today, my boss felt the need to “talk to me about it in private”, which is always good fun.
I sigh. She is taking her good time answering my last text. 
It’s been too long. I can’t wait to see you. <3
I put the phone back in my pocket, trying to avoid thinking about whether the heart was too much.
Summer is making its flurry of deep green leaves and soothing heat as I move up the driveway to what isn’t a mansion as such, but a house large enough that I’m positive I wouldn’t be able to afford it in a thousand years. It belongs to my “stepfather”, Bryce Callaghan. When I think of him, I imagine a top hat and a monocle, but to my disappointment, I’ve never seen him wear either. My mother has taken his surname and is no longer “Daisy King”, self-evidently a downgrade by miles.
I feel like a stranger whenever I visit, which I do more often than I imagine other boys my age would, once out of their parents’ clutches. Bryce thinks I’m a “good son”. In reality, my mother has a perfect understanding of the extent of my needs. That masturbation alone doesn’t help my concentration.
Mother and I will be alone today. They keep a servant, but he has today off. Bryce is on a business trip, which happens delightfully often. It means we don’t have to be covert at all. Taking risks is exciting and all, but the dumb self-help guide some guy online told me to read dictates that I should take it easy instead.
As I reach the door, I punch in the security code and let myself in.
I slouch down the hall, hands in my pockets. “Mom!” I call out as I hang my denim jacket. “I’m here.” My nose catches a scent. She’s making spinach puffs; something I’ve always been crazy for, since that one movie.
She bursts out the kitchen door, still wearing oven mitts. Her tail brushes and sweeps, her ears perk up, as to say the sight brings her comfort. “Hi, sweetheart!” As she is about to embrace me, she stops a moment, looks at the mitts, and rolls her eyes, as if she forgot they were there.
We embrace regardless, and I hold her close. My hands dig into her body and find their way down her hips, onto her rear. Once upon a time, my face would almost be between her breasts in this position. Now I’m taller than her. I feel them against my shirt. But something is… different. They are harder.
I step back and look her up and down.
“Did… did you get new tits?”
She puts her hands in her side. “I figured you’d notice first thing, you horndog.”
I step in and put my hands against them. My mother rolls her eyes as I feel at them as if it was the first time I had a pair of breasts between my hands. They’re not that different, but the shape is definitely more defined, and they’re not as soft as the rest of her. “Was that really necessary?”
“Eh,” she says. “Bryce insisted on paying for them. And it’s not like I’m young enough that I need to keep my body sacred.”
It’s sacred to me. “Hmmm,” I muse, considering whether I’m disappointed or intrigued. On one hand, I don’t like the thought that she at all needs to try to be beautiful. On the other, fake tits make one look like a right slut, so I think I might be able to indulge. “Show them to me.”
“Hey now,” she says, leaning forward. “Don’t talk to your mother like that, young man. Ask nicely.”
“Show them to me, whore.”
She gasps, as if overly affronted. She takes off the oven mitts and sets them aside. “You will owe me for this.” She snorts, but she smiles as she pulls up her top and bra, and her new tits fall out, not as decisively as I’m used to. She’s in the middle of her forties; now that I think of it, they’ve been hanging lower, heavy as they are. Now, they’re resisting. Perky; a curving surface, throwing off a silky shine.
“My…” I say, reaching for them. “They’re like balloons.” I touch them, and I feel at her fur, that’s suddenly strained and firm, like the flank of a horse.
She huffs. “Hardly, you’ve just never seen them outside of porn.”
“Well, they’re exactly like I imagined them.”
“Oh really,” she says, faintly trailing off as I push them together, malleable still. “What have you been imagining?”
I hum to myself, sorting out one of my lesser used fantasies. “Film-crew brings you and a handful of hung guys to the poolside. Skimpy swimsuit. Hot-pink lipstick and eye-shadow. Fake lashes. They coat your tits in cum, and the eye-liner smears from you being slapped around.” I lean in and run my tongue over one of her breasts. She shivers.
“Oh… You’re making me regret not becoming a porn star.”
“Why didn’t you?” I lift her nipple to my mouth put my lips to it.
“Oh, that’s no way raising kids.” As I bite gently, I hear her suck air through her teeth. “And by now it’s too late to dabble in new careers.”
Yeah, raising your kids went swimmingly, I’d say. “Never too late,” I mutter, glancing up. “I guarantee you, there’s a market.”
She runs her hand through my hair. “We can get into the amateur category. ‘Son impregnates mom’. And no-one will believe it.”
Ah, yes. My dick is reacting as expected. If I actually did impregnate her, these puppies would actually have milk for me. I gasp as I pull away. It would be outright anticlimactic if I came in my pants, standing in the hallway. “I’d love to, but I have a friend who religiously browses that category. Do we want to take the risk?” I want to. But should we?
“You don’t think he’d pat your back?” She slurs her voice, knowing exactly what she’s doing. “Get an insatiable desire to join in?”
I cough reverently, trying to get a hold of myself. “I…”
“Want to try them out?” she asks as she pushes them together and arcs her neck and tail as a slashing sabre. “You’ll be the first.”
I breathe in as deep as my lungs can handle. Another scent draws at me. “Would be a crime to say no to that. But… it would also be a shame to let the food sit and get cold. We have all day.”
She pinches my cheek. “Such a responsible boy. We’ll make a man of you yet. The food is done, be a sweetheart and go take it out of the oven. I’ll go… doll myself up.”
As she winks at me and shows teeth in a devilish smirk, all I can think is God, how well she knows me.

Dragon Ball Z is running on the TV. I like the whole part with hairless monkeys beating each other up, but the pacing of the animation is atrocious. Frieza is about to get his ass handed to him. In like ten episodes. The spinach puffs that I’m gorging on are helping my mood. And, of course, the big-titted slut glued to my crotch.
 She had eye-shadow with glitter lying around. The lipstick isn’t pink, but deep red looks just fine being dragged in streaks across my dick. She frequently dives in, nearly choking herself. As she coughs, her eyes water, and I’m met with the gorgeous picture of mascara running down her cheeks. Her hands are gripping at her tits and her fishnet stockings. I know she enjoys being on her knees, so I’m dragging out my finish. The yelling half-naked men on TV help.
The episode ends, and I don’t think I have the heart for another. I take a solid swig of the one-and-a-half liter bottle of Mountain Dew™ that she left on the table for me. I can imagine she had ulterior motives for giving me plenty to drink.
I dig my fingers into her hair, sticky with hairspray and push her against me, eliciting whimpers. 
“Who’s a dumb, bimbo whore?” I ask off-handedly. 
The answer is just a muddled blur against my dick.
“If you’re just a pair of plastic tits and a hole to fuck, wag your tail.”
Her lips press down against my balls, as her tail wags diligently in response. The full white fur we pride ourselves on sways as a reed in the wind. Even if she aimed for trashy, that tail betrays her. She can’t help but look like a queen.
I let go of her, and she falls back, heaving for air.
“Push them together,” I say as lock my dick between my fingers, over the panting woman.
She does as I say, tucking her chin in, gripping at her new prize ponies. “Baptize them, sweetheart.”
I jerk it as I tuck at the roots of her hair between my fingers. I shoot and I hardly need to let her know I’ve been looking forward to seeing her. It falls on her ruff and pools in her cleavage. A jet strikes her cheek and mixes with mascara. As I empty, I make sure to paint both my targets equally. Can’t leave them unglazed. It hugs her closely, leaving her decorated, the contours of puddles littering her fur.
She leans back, blinking, eyebrows together, as if dumbstruck. “Th– thank you.” She’s a terrific actor. Completely surprised that being a slut nets you a dress of cum.
I lean back as she starts cleaning my limping dick. “I wish I could thank Bryce for the treat,” I say. I reach for the Mountain Dew™ and empty the last of it. I let out a sigh of relief as I look down at her enjoying herself. “Not that he’d know to appreciate it properly.” I breathe in deep and sit comfortably back in the couch. “I need to piss. Mind if I go?”
Her eyes shoot open, excited. She shakes her head, lips still around me.
I relax everything and clear my head. I used to have issues with this, but there’s nothing I can’t do if I set my mind to it. And my mother can make some piercing doe eyes, so I practiced. Once, playing video games, I had to go when in an online raid and had to use and empty bottle. This is like that in a way.
There are Christmas lights in her eyes as my urine starts flowing. I feel it fill her mouth around me and she starts the rhythmic swallowing.
“Careful not to spill,” I say, smirking. “Wouldn’t want to ruin Bryce’s carpet.” I’m not sure how she would explain that one. But she has practice enough swallowing. She’s not spilling a drop.
Her hand is against her crotch, massaging her insides. 
My erection is only hesitantly returning. It’s not like I don’t like the thought, but I just came. This is more for her than me. She associates the taste with orgasms.
I feel pity for the boys who had to go against her when they were chugging beer in high school. 
I’m done. I’m void of sexual energy at this point. My satisfaction as I get up is of pure animal release. I shake at her and wipe the tip on her cheek, merging the colors. She chuckles lightly as she wipes her lips. Mascara, cum, and piss. “What a god damn mess you are,” I say, and almost forget to smile as I zip up.
My phone vibrates. I swiftly fish it out my pocket.
I sit back down as I read the message.
Hey, sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I have a little confession to make… of sorts. I have been seeing someone from the athletics team. He saw the heart in the message you sent and got a bit…possessive. I told him first thing that you are “just my brother” and that there was no need to worry ;). But there was still some amount of raised eyebrows. So please be careful. I can’t wait to see you either. <3 Please let me know when you read this, as I will be deleting it first thing. Hugs and kisses.
I fall back into the couch, frowning. I quickly type out an answer.
Roger that, take care.
I set the phone aside and sigh. Not as much for what I just read. Just for general exhaustion.
“What’s that?” my mother asks and sets down carefully beside me. She’s clean enough on the back to not make a mess of the couch.
“Did you know Dalia has a boyfriend?” I ask tonelessly.
She hesitates visibly. “I don’t know that she used the word ‘boyfriend’.” She shrugs. “But she did talk about… dating. A boy.” She blinks. 
I look at her, and don’t even see her unclean fur, just her eyes.
“How do you… feel about that?” she asks with care. “I know you’ve been looking forward to seeing her again.”
I obviously feel jealousy. But it’s complicated. I don’t loathe feeling jealous. It reminds me how much I love her. I like… feeling the space between us. How she moves about me. I know she will always return to me. There’s a rope between us, that I don’t believe anyone could replace. Not after what we’ve been through.
“It annoys me that she waited until now to tell me,” I say. “She should trust me enough to let me know first thing.”
“She was just unsure how you’d react.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Can you blame her?” 
“Yes,” I say, dragging my palm across my face. “But then again, I just haven’t been feeling well in general.”
“My poor baby,” she says and strokes my cheek. “Still depressed? I wish I could do more for you.”
“Probably I just need to figure out… what to do with myself in life. Dalia…” I had dreams of Dalia. I imagined she could help.
She breathes in deep. “I have to say it…” she says, probably reading my thoughts. “Again. The reason I kept the two of you apart, was to get you used to the fact that… seeing other people might not be bad in the long run.”
“I know.” She doesn’t want me and my sister to “be together”. Which makes sense, I suppose, in a weird roundabout way, even considering everything else. I have tried seeing other people, with little luck. I imagine Dalia would have no issue. One could say my white fur makes me as pretty as her, but her natural charisma is much more outspoken. “But…”
“But,” she says. “If a year without each other didn’t help… Then I won’t be the one to keep you apart. I’m no saint, but I was hoping I could… redeem myself. Have you grow up to be happy. I just hope that whatever you do, a year has helped you make a decision that doesn’t have your cock at the wheel.”
I nod. I know she only wants the best for us.
“And if you fuck up again,” she says, in a melodic tone. “Then you’ll owe me one. After all I’ve done for you, it’s not fair. That she gets to get pregnant, but I don’t.”
I look intently at her, looking for the telltale signs that she’s joking. But they’re not there. “You’re serious?” I blink and shake my head. “Are you and Bryce trying for a baby?” Not many things surprise me these days, but it seems she managed.
“Like I said. I was hoping for a chance to redeem myself. Raise a kid right. It’ll be last call soon. And if given the choice… I’d rather have it be yours than his.”
I suppose… that I’m flattered. I toss my hand, confused. “You’re not afraid of… you know. Retarded incest babies?”
“At my age, we’re running that risk at either rate.” Then she laughs morbidly, as if the entire scene suddenly just strikes her as hilarious. “Let’s go take a shower.” She leans in and kisses me on the lips.
At the taste, I’m suddenly reminded that I just pissed down her throat. I spit. “Ugh. Yes. We’re going to need that.” 
“Oh, grow up you baby,” she says. With a finger, she wipes off one the curtains of cum still sinking into the fur on her tits. I hold a numb expression, as she ruffles my hair with the dirty hand. “Come on.”
She gets up, and I follow, good son that I am.

In the shower, we wash each other’s bodies, and I’ve been waiting long enough for today for my erection to return, bit by bit. Her make-up dissolves, and my filth runs off her body. She’s pure, crystalline, white as snow.
I explore the sensation of water trickling over the tense surface of her breasts. I lather up my hands and as I clean her, I pinch her nipples. I push inwards, my fingertips placed in her cleavage, comfortably buried. She hums, self-satisfied. As I run my hands down her back, she purrs and draws a curve with her tail, pushing out her rear, leaning against the tiled wall. My hand slips off the tail tip and moves to the plump cheeks of her ass, pulling them apart. My middle finger feels at her rim and barely slips inside. 
I love the sensation of an asshole tightening around my finger. She grins as she works her muscles. The blood is pumping throughout me.
“Get on your knees,” she says, suddenly stern.
It is my turn to be submissive. I don’t mind.
I get down and run my nose up her leg. Her muscles are still lean. Her ass is… I hesitate. “Did you get your asshole bleached too?” I ask.
“Did mom give you permission to talk?” she snaps, places a hand on the back of my head, and presses my nose against her. Though it’s the most unsanitary part of her, she smells of soap. I hold my breath as she blocks out the light. My tongue find its way inside to where she still tastes bitter. If something beats the sensation of a sphincter tightening on my finger, it’s when it does on my tongue.
As she plays with her muscles, she has perfect control of my pulse.
Gasping, I pull back for air. My excitement beckons and my hand reaches down… But my mother is quick to kick at my wrist. “Don’t touch yourself! You have to be a good little boy first.”
“Sorry,” I hiss, holding still.
Her fingers grip at my hair and pull me upright so I can see the narrowed eyes she is shooting back at me. I close my lips tight.
“Clean up after daddy, faggot,” she says on a snide key. “He made a mess up my ass before he left. Your mommy’s been a good little whore for him, but now she needs cleaning. Good thing I have a little pussy of a son.” She lifts her leg against the shower wall, and pulls at her ass cheek. The light drizzle of water trails down her thigh, runs through the valleys, and along her tail. 
“Aahhnn,” I say and lean into the scene she’s painting.
We’ve played this game before. She was hesitant about it at first, but I convinced her. I can’t help but indulge in the feeling of submitting. Doing so to another male makes me feel so very small. Adorable, almost. Bryce couldn’t hope to play the role as well as my father, but we make due.
So, I imagine that the bitter taste of her ass is tainted with his load of cum, left with her as reminder that she’s his girl. That I drink it up. That it stains the fur on my chest and washes down the shower drain.
“Good boy,” she says. “Touch yourself. Slowly.”
I do as she says, reaching down, stroking carefully. Her tail caresses me, telling me that I’ve stilled a strict mother’s anger, and I tremble.
“Faster,” she says.
My pace is uneven, but soon vigorous. Not long after, I’m nearing my limit.
She has said that she would want to do it. Actually, let me clean up after him some time. But it’s hard to find an opportune moment. Still, the thought is razor sharp and velvet soft; I know she will punish me if I finish too fast. I imagine she hears my every thought, reading my body.
“Cum for mommy,” she says and adds a haughty giggle. “Shoot your load down the drain where it belongs.”
I see it then. My evil mother, keeping my hands off the prize. I must look on helpless, inches away from sinking balls deep into her, taking my place as the man of the house.
I cum over the drain grid as she told me to, and the velvet waves course through me. My heart pounds in my ears and my tail whips behind me.
I sit heaving for air on the shower floor. I’m dizzy. The bitter taste on my tongue is suddenly less pleasant.
She kneels down beside me, ruffles my hair, and leans in for a hug.
As we go out the shower and finish up, I give her a reverent, slow clap, and she gives me a light bow in return.
Yes, she’s a good actor, I will give her that. But it wasn’t real. And somehow that bothers me. How could it be real?
We laugh and joke as she packs up the rest of the spinach puffs for me. We sigh as we longingly talk of how it will be to see Dalia again. Whether we will be able to recognize her at all, even though we’ve done video chats.
I would love to stay longer, but I have work tomorrow.
As she sends me out the door, she reminds me that I have to call her if I feel the least bit upset. I assure her that I will, though I can’t very well call her more than once a week. What would I even say?

Waiting for the bus, I light a cigarette. The shifting shadows of the trees are calming in a way, even if the evening sunlight doesn’t feel like it used to way back when. The smoke burning at my lungs helps me imagine I’m a cowboy. I lean so the shade covers my eyes, and I imagine I’m wearing a wide-brimmed hat. I point the cigarette at the opposite side of the street. It’s a six-shooter, and the next moment I’m fanning the hammer, taking out the fat pigeons shuffling about. Make that six coffins. I take a drag, congratulating myself. I close my eyes at the sun and lean against a lamppost.
I don’t think cigarettes ever made me feel better. But they help me not feel worse. My sister would scoff at me. An athlete shuns anything that messes with the body’s clockwork.
“Excuse me.”
My eyes shoot open at the voice suddenly beside me. I was almost dozing off.
“Sir, could I bum a cigarette?”
I stand for a moment, looking him up and down. A raggedy grey cat. What is he doing in this neighborhood?
I meet his eyes, something I promised myself I would practice. “Oh, sorry. I don’t smoke.” I take another drag and let out the cloud of smoke towards him.
“You…” He gestures at me. The obvious evidence to the contrary.
But then the poor fellow seems to give up and walks along down the street.