Re: The Cat: Matt & Cat
Matt didn't like the closed doors and windows.
He didn't like the freezing cold. He didn't like the way the darkness outside seemed to get even darker, and it sparked a fury that was without reason. He spent it on the back of the front door, slamming a steel fist into the woodwork with the weight of his entire body behind it. Felt hemmed in, pinned down, drowned in cold and lack of light.
When the door finally opened it was sagging like a gap-toothed mouth, the knob crumpled like a tissue, splintered and broken. It would need to be replaced. Soon.
Talking to Cat, though, it helped. He didn't know why. He wasn't typically good at putting things into words, but lately talking had done a good job of grounding him when things seemed ready to spiral away. Talking or writing was a reminder of all the things he could do, of where he was now, what he was now. Whatever that was. By the time he showed up at the bar, he had mostly lost the jittery aftershocks of adrenaline and coiled muscles, but there was some there around the edges.
More importantly, at some point in the last day, he had shaved. He hadn't cut his hair - that was still too long and hanging loose - but he looked slightly better without the careless stubble. He could almost have passed for a hipster who got lost and ended up working ironically behind the bar at a place in the middle of nowhere.
He wore a worn and comfortable blue wool shirt and a denim jacket, and was one of the first to come through the doors when they opened. He caught Cat's eye as she started pouring out drinks. It was strangely satisfying to walk around the bar instead of sitting in front of it.
He slid in beside her. "You'll make money tonight," he said, in Russian. He almost smiled. He rolled up his sleeves.