A Chance Encounter

The first thing you need to know about me is that I’m a dog guy. I’ve always been a dog guy. Love the furry bastards to death, and how they tilt their damned heads whenever you ask them a question that they cannot understand. Not that they truly understand anything, of course—it’s all about repetition and rewards with the little buggers. But, the gesture is so damned endearing, and—dare I say a word that my buddies would surely give me a hard time using—adorable.
         So, you can imagine how I must have felt when my O.K. Cupid date asked me to meet her at a god-damned cat café. If she wasn’t so damned hot, I would’ve said ‘no, uh-uh’ and moved on. But, here I am, at three fucking o’clock in the afternoon, waiting for a hot chick, to have coffee with in a god-damned café full of cats of all shapes, sizes, colors, and temperaments.
         Not that I hate cats, of course. I’m an animal lover, first and foremost, so I appreciate and respect all in the animal kingdom. Well, except for llamas—I think they’re assholes. But, I digress. I like cats enough. Natalie, two exes ago, had a Siamese cat that was sketchy as hell when I first met it, but it warmed up to me after a couple of visits, so much so that it would fucking nestle into my lap whenever Natalie and I were cuddled on the sofa watching some Netflix. It would purr when I would pet it, and it always gave me a sense of relief that something I was doing was causing it joy. I wish dogs purred.
         This cat café is supposed to be the best one in the U.S. How do you even get that distinction? What parameters did this café end up receiving the highest points on to make it the best of the best in this country? Also, who the fuck are these people who rate cat cafés?
         This place is pretty big for a café, that’s for sure. Almost like two standard Starbuckses. Starbuckses? Is that even a word? Well, it is now. Anyway, the seating is pretty normal for a café, but there’s a bunch of couches here—like, an insane number of couches. I guess that’s what cat people use? There’s a couple of play towers with those scratch pole thingies, but what I found impressive was that the owners designed these platforms and bridges along the ceilings so that the cats can basically not even touch the god-damned ground all day, if they wanted to. Come to think of it, that’d be fucking creepy, having the cats all above you at all times, staring at you all evilly as they are wont to do. In fact, there’s a gray cat on a ceiling perch, kitty corner—ha!—from the bistro where I was sitting, looking at me intently. Is there something on my face? Do I have spinach stuck in my teeth?
         I took my phone out of my jeans pocket to look at the time. Three-ten. Where the fuck is my date? She didn’t seem like she’d be the type who would be late. Ah, who am I kidding? Chicks are always late. Especially hot chicks; they feel they can get away with it. You know what, yeah, they can.
         I looked at the ceiling perch across from me and the gray cat was no longer there. Good. It was starting to freak me the fuck out. I scanned the room to try to find it, but I couldn’t. It was probably hiding in one of the cat towers that had those sleeping cubbies.
         “Sir,” said a voice beside me, and I looked up to see the smiling face of a really cute Asian girl. She wore an apron that had the cat café’s logo on it. I guess she worked here. Man, she’s kinda hot. I wonder if she’s on O.K. Cupid. “Just checking to make sure you’re okay. Is this your first time here?”
         “Yeah,” I said. “First time. I’m kind of a dog guy.” Not really sure why I felt the need to say that.
         She chuckled in a way I found only Asian girls can do. You know, it’s a combination of innocent and sexy. “Well, please do make yourself as at home as you can. You can order from the counter when you’re ready.” She said, pointing toward the front of the room.
         “Okay,” I said. “Just waiting for my date.” Stupid! Why the fuck did you just say that? You don’t tell a hot chick you’re waiting for a date! You just painted yourself into a corner, dipshit!
         “I see,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I gather she made the choice to meet here? Or is it ‘he’?”
         “She!” I said, a little too quickly. “Yes, she decided to meet here.”
         “Well,” the waitress said, coyly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. God-damn it, she’s cute! “I think she’s a keeper if she likes cats.”
         “Ha, probably.”
         “You know,” she said, bending toward me, and cupping her mouth to whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m kind of a dog girl.” She winked as she straightened up, and walked back toward the order counter.
         What the fuck just happened? Did I just get hit on? The phone dinged, and I saw that I had a message on the O.K. Cupid app. I opened it, and read the message from my date: “I’m running a little late…” (No, shit, Sherlock.) “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sorry! XOXO”
         ‘XOXO’? These hot chicks are so fucking insane sometimes. I put the phone back in my jeans pocket, and scanned the room again. My eyes fell upon the face of the Asian waitress as she stood behind the order counter. She caught my gaze, gave me a little smile, and winked.
         I smiled back just as the gray cat pounced on my lap.


Entry for "The Writer's Cramp"   by Sophurky for 28 January 2017 contest:
Prompt: Cat cafés are becoming more popular. Here's one that's opening in Indianapolis: http://wishtv.com/2017/01/26/cat-cafe-opening-in-fountain-square/ So write a story or poem set in a cat café.
Word Count: 1000