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An orange cat slithers into
the middle of her empty lap
out of thin air, like orange juice
poured into a little tumbler out of
an enormous jug, holding more, 
more, more of the same. 

Cats have scared her forever, so,
she sits still, does not move, lest it
scratches, bites or makes her bleed;
it, on the other hand, shamelessly
sprawls out, grunting, purring, spilling
over, uncontained, as though asking 
to be consumed in its love. 

Her guards come off slowly --
she smiles -- her hesitant fingers
proceeding to give in; "What a beauty!"
she says to herself, its shining orange
beckoning her to take a sip and there
she goes, her fingers taking, in the expanse
of its orange, the awaited dip. 

Immediately, it contorts and leaps, those 
green eyes brimming with fury (or fear, 
she'll never know), she tries her best 
to pull it in, comfort it, wrap it up in
the folds of her gentle lap, but it 
spills out like a deluge of spit from
a foul, foul mouth, scratching her limbs, 
biting those very fingers that strayed 
in to love him, till she bleeds.
It then sprints away. 
She waits for its return. 
Well, it never does. 

But she's not scared of cats anymore since then, 
there's a delight in their scratches and bites, she says, 
and she tries petting each that come her way nowadays, 
hoping to run into that orange bastard again.

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