The Story of Jasper Rollins

What sold Jasper Rollins was the shape her eye makeup took when she looked at him. He could never remember after that night what the conversation was about, but he did remember being especially witty (or so it seemed to him), and each time he quipped successfully, she curled her eyes into a semi-circle and twinkled them at him.

A belly full of rum, beer, and a dram of absinthe, Rollins was more confident than usual and found he could manipulate the eye-liner easily. The day after the party he wouldn’t be able to recall a thing Karla said to him, but she sure as hell found him fascinating, and Jasper’s ego enjoyed that. He called her a few days later.

Jasper wouldn’t see her again for several weeks. He wrote for a New York newspaper; she worked for a Washington public relations firm. Their mutual friend in the capitol rarely threw parties. Jasper and Karla talked on the phone most nights for hours, though, and soon he forgot what she looked like. He never forgot her eyes, but as the shape of her face and the length of her hair vanished from his memory, he created new features for her.

Even though he didn’t notice at first meeting, Jasper fell in love with how sharp Karla was. She kept up with him intellectually—something he had longed for in a woman. When Jasper lay down to sleep at night he thought about their conversations. He mostly remembered the things he said and was generally pleased with himself and how his remarks were received. He remembered less of what she said, but his overall feeling was that Karla was quick to the draw and smart.

Two months went by like that. When he wasn’t talking to her, he was thinking about her.

After two months, Jasper was covering a story in Washington, and he and Karla arranged a meeting. It had to be brief—coffee or something—because Jasper could stay only a day. So they met at a café near the capitol building.

Karla had already picked a table outside on the patio when Jasper arrived. At first he didn’t recognize her, partly because she didn’t look like he remembered, and also because she offered no signs of recognition to him. Her complexion lacked the brilliance he envisioned. He saw in his mind a portrait with no more and no fewer strokes than necessary. He saw before him a person.

Even when they were finally situated, the conversation was contrived, unnatural. Not like on the phone. Not like what he replayed in his head. Jasper tried hard; she had nothing to say.

And Jasper swore it had to be the lighting. Her eyes were lusterless.

The Dying Cat: A Short Story

They must not see me this way. Oh, the mice I’ve caught. The kittens I’ve birthed. I can’t let them see me like this.

It will be today that I die. I’m sure of that. My instincts are slow, worse than ever before. The cloudiness over my eyes comes all the time now. Yes, today I’ll die.

But no one must know. They have been watching me. They know I’m sick. But I can’t let them see me. I’m ashamed. I’m vulnerable. I know: All living things die. Of course I know that. But how embarrassing!

They will find me eventually, wherever I go. Wherever I hide. I’ll start to smell, like the mice. But to find me lying on the floor, not moving… That won’t do. I am strong, quick, smart. I must hide. I must not let them see me.

That is why I will slip underneath the porch. That is why I will die alone.