“No,” he said. “Whichever way the cat goes, that person becomes the owner.”
The cat on its pillow was almost asleep.
The young man tried to think of something to say because the vast bed lay unoccupied, save by the slumbering beast. It suddenly popped into his head to speak across the bed to the young woman.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“What?”
“Well,” he said, “if we’re going to argue till dawn about my cat—”
“Till dawn, nonsense! Midnight, maybe. My cat, you mean. Catherine.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Silly, but my name’s Catherine.”
“Don’t tell me your nickname.” He almost laughed.
“I won’t. Yours?”
“You won’t believe it. Tom.” He shook his head.
“I’ve known a dozen cats with that name.”
“I don’t live by it.”
He tested the bed as if it were a warm bath, waiting.
“You can stand if you wish, but as for me—”
He arranged himself on the bed.
The kitten snoozed on.
With his eyes shut he said, “Well?”
She sat, and then lay on the far side, prepared to fall.
“That’s more like it. Where were we?”
“Proving which of us deserves to go home with Electra.”
“You’ve named the cat?”
“A noncommittal name, based on personality, not on sex.”
“You didn’t look then?”
“Nor shall I. Electra. Proceed.”
“My plea for ownership? Well.” He rummaged the space behind his eyelids.
He lay looking at the ceiling for a moment and then said, “You know, it’s funny the way things work out with cats. When I was a kid my grandparents told me and my brothers to drown a litter of kittens. We kids went out and they did it, but I couldn’t stand it and ran away.”
There was a long silence.
She looked at the ceiling and said, “Thank God for that.”