The Orange Cat

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.