Max
Isabel Braverman
It was a mistake to take Max there. He was a dog person; our relationship was doomed from the start. I even told him that, I said, “we’re not compatible we should just end this now.” He thought I was joking. Someone who is really intuitive once told me that behind every joke there’s a quarter of truth. So between a half joke and a half truth I guess I was being 75 percent truthful, which meant our relationship had a 25 percent survival rate, mathematically speaking of course.
It was a Saturday at 2 o’clock and Max and I were at the Cat Café. This is not just the name of a standard coffee café, it is actually a cat café. In other words, as you drink your cup of coffee or tea you can pet a bunch of cats. Yes, our feline friends could be seen roaming around as Max and I walked in to the spacious yet cozy café. Everything was wood paneled and there was a chalkboard wall behind the counter that listed all the drinks and stuff on the menu. It was the kind of place your hippie camp counselor would work at. We came to the cat café upon my suggestion, but only after Max asked me out. I was surprised he said yes to a date spent amongst cats, I knew he was a keeper.
I met Max in my Women’s Studies class at school. He was the only guy in there. I asked him why he was taking it and he said he got confused when registering for classes and put in the wrong course registration number, and then was too lazy to change it. One day after class we started talking and then he just kept walking with me. I wasn’t sure if this was because a.) he was going in the same direction, b.) it was too awkward to break off at this point, or c.) he liked me. I was hoping for the latter. I got to my destination, dance rehearsal, and he said “I think since we both have an appreciation for Anna Karenina we should go out.” I appreciated his attempt and after complimenting his scarf agreed to the date. And so here we weren’t so quickly, at a cat café on a rainy afternoon sipping our coffees and petting a chubby orange cat named Teddy.
A date is really just another word for an interview. You pick a time and place to meet, you dress nicely, you get really nervous and jittery, you answer questions about yourself and the whole time you’re wondering if at the end of all this you’ll get laid, I mean the job. Alcohol may or may not be involved. The thing is there’s too much risk in it. When it’s over you’ll either feel utterly elated or totally rejected. No one likes rejection. I for one am sick of it—rejection letters, rejected job offers, unanswered text messages. My thinking is why would you reject someone when in place of rejecting them you can get a few hours of harmless fun, companionship and someone to hold you. You know everyone thinks it’s only guys who think about sex on a first date, but that’s not true. I’m not necessarily thinking about if I’ll get “lucky” but more about if I’m going to sleep with them now or later.
Does anyone go on dates anymore? I mean really what was I doing at a cat café with Max. What was this? Where was it going? How does he feel about me? Does he want me to be his girlfriend? Does his love for cats run as deep as mine? Those and a plethora of other questions were running through my mind as I pet a nice smooth gray cat.
Max told me his parents were divorced and after I awkwardly didn’t know how to react (do you say I’m sorry?) he asked me about my parents. I told him that my mom does the New York Times crossword every day. She pretty much always completes them and doesn’t even brag about it, which is a really difficult feat because I brag if I get one clue right. I call my mom a “human dictionary” because she knows every word. If I want to know what a word means I either ask my mom or Google it. Who uses dictionary’s anymore? Oh wait, my mom does. One night at dinner we were trying to remember what the capitol of Norway was. I was going to look it up online and she was going to look in the Dictionary. We decided to have a race. On my dad’s countdown we each ran to our respective sources of information and started searching away. I won. It’s Oslo. I told Max this story and he liked it, but he was the kind of person who after he told a story would say “I’m not very good at telling stories.”
Just as Max was explaining why he prefers tangerines to oranges the gray cat got feisty and clawed at my hands, leaving a scratch mark on the top of my right hand, which instantly started oozing crimson blood. I feigned tragedy, clutching my hand and exclaiming, “I’m not ready to die yet.” I really wasn’t ready; there were still so many unsolved mysteries I needed answers to. Like why do geese decide when to swim and when to fly, why do I sweat so much when I’m nervous and what is coffee. Max asked if I was ok and I said “ya” but what I didn’t tell him is that I think I’m a hypochondriac, but a lazy hypochondriac. I always think there is something wrong with me but I’m not pro-active enough to go see a doctor about it. Currently I think I am going blind in my left eye, I’m allergic to shellfish and I’m bruising more easily than I used to. All of these things could be serious ailments, but since they are not a hindrance on every day life I’d rather put off knowing about it. Ignorance is bliss I suppose.
After Max got a bandage for my hand I said, “This should be a weekly tradition, Cat Café Caturday, haha get it?” I don’t know why I sometimes feel the need to add “haha get it” after my jokes, as if he wouldn’t notice my subtle witticism of changing the S in Saturday to a C. The thing is, he did “haha” and he did get it. It was like he got me. Not that anyone can really “get” anyone. I don’t even get myself. And, to my shock and delight, he responded, “yeah definitely.” This meant two things: 1. He likes cat cafes, which means he is a good person. 2. He wants to see me again.
Max and I did keep seeing each other for a while. What does that mean, “seeing”? We never defined what our relationship was, which meant it was somewhere between friendship and a relationship. I like to call it a vague relationship. I’ve had quite a few of those so you can consider me an expert. They always start off so simple in the beginning, you know they like you without having to say it, it’s in their actions. I know he likes me when he laughs at my stupid jokes. I know he likes me when he texts me to ask if there was any Spanish homework even though his best friend is in our class. I know he likes me when he stops his car just to say hi. I know he doesn’t like me anymore when he stops doing these things. It left me wondering, “what changed?”
My friend once said, “I hate it when people say they are a cat person or a dog person, it depends on the cat or dog.” This is true. But it is also true that there are only two types of people in this world—cat people and dog people. Sometimes they mix and sometimes they don’t. Life is sporadic. One day you’re petting cats at a cat café and your hand brushes against his and you feel that spark of electricity run through you and everything feels right and nothing hurts. Then another day you look down and see the scar on the top of your right hand from the cat scratch and you smile because you remember how you got it but it also makes you feel inexplicably sad.
