It'd been one of those days. Bad. Mean. Bloody. It hadn't been the first time that he'd been left wishing that an art history teacher's job could change the world, and his easy smiles faltered against the gritted demeanor of a man who'd had enough, but still wouldn't quit. He'd just [...] moan a bit about broken noses, cracked ribs and blood-stained purple leather.
But honestly grateful that he hadn't ended up in the dumpster and racked up more broken bones that would any doctor worth its salt shake their head at his exploits, Cooper still lingered near it all the same. Purple leather was @ #$%*; recognizable in a pinch, but hell to keep clean, and it never gave off the right vibe like red, white and blue did. Arrows and knives were fine and dandy until you had to take the subway and accidentally cleared out half a car. So he'd stayed put, tried his best to ignore the pitiful meow of a cat nearby, and dropped his bulky frame on a stack of wooden pallets.
But before his mind could turn full gloom, a tortoiseshell cat trotted closer, and rubbed up against feet. Right; he was a cat magnet - old, young, sweet, mean, all turned to puddle in his hands given time, and it was usually the butt of many jokes, but Coop wasn't about to hate. "Hey, mama." His hand snaked down, and gave the cat a soft pat on the head. "What's up?"