Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) by Elizabeth Kyne (ap literature book list .TXT) 📗

I stopped atthe doorway because the soft glow from my computer screenilluminated the room. Not unusual in itself, but I could swear Ihadn’t turned it on that morning. Even if I had, after half an hourof being left idle it’s programmed to go into sleep mode.

I flicked thelightswitch and the one weak energy-saving lightbulb at the centreof my ceiling struggled to cast an orange-tinged light across thelounge. Chester let out a startled meow and leapt from the computertable onto the floor.

‘Chester!’

There was myanswer to how the computer happened to be on: Chester had somehowwoken it up.

My cat tried topretend he hadn’t been lurking anywhere he shouldn’t and wanderedover to the coffee table where he rubbed his side against one ofthe legs. It was this sort of behaviour that had left a thin filmof cat hair on my carpet and upholstery. The place was overdue ahoover. It was overdue a tidy and a dust as well, but with so manybookshelves over-filled with dust-attracting volumes and a saggypast-its-use-by-date, faded red sofa taking up most of the space,there was little incentive to make the effort.

I took my teaover to the computer table and put it on top of the pile of creditcard and utility bills I’d left to deal with later. My firstthought was to turn the machine off, but then I figured I might aswell check my email.

The web-browserwas running. It was open at a page with a large photo of a smilingman in his forties and, alongside, a bunch of paragraphs abouthim.

I turned to mycat. ‘Have you been playing with the mouse again?’ He stoppedabusing the leg of the coffee table and looked back at me like hedidn’t understand my human words.

I decided toignore the stupid cat and turned back to the monitor. I was aboutto close down the website and open up my email account, when thefirst paragraph caught my eye.

‘Looking tomeet a woman in her late thirties / early forties for walks in thewoods, trips to the cinema and romantic evenings at home with abottle of wine.’

As I read, theman seemed to be smiling at me from the screen. His eyes drew mein, as if he were speaking the words directly to me. I readfurther.

‘I neverthought I’d turn to a dating website, but after years of livingalone, I think this could be a great way to meet people.’

I’d never turnto a dating website either - I was desperate, but not thatdesperate - which made me wonder how on earth the page had ended upon my computer. I must have Googled something obscure and pulled itup by mistake, like the time I searched for a pantomime script ofBabes in the Wood for my neighbour’s school and ended uplooking at entirely the wrong sort of babes.

I felt thebrush of warm fur at my ankle. Chester was suddenly at my feet.‘Hello, what are you after?’ I stroked him on the top of his head;he seemed to like that.

This was allvery well, but it wasn’t getting my email read. As I reached forthe mouse, Chester jumped onto my lap and knocked my arm away.‘You’re such an attention seeker!’ I stroked his fur with mymouse-hand and felt the rumble of his purr as he arched hisback.

As soon as Itook my hand away, he demanded my attention again by jumping uponto the computer table. ‘Chester!’

He walked alongit, his tail dangling perilously close to my tea. ‘Come on, get offof there! You know you’re not allowed on the furniture.’

I was about tocup my hands over his furry body and lift him back onto the floor,when he sat right on the middle of the mousemat and placed hisfront paws on the mouse buttons. On the screen, a window popped upover the image of the smiling man.

Yes, I wouldlike to meet this man, it said along the top of the window.Underneath, it had a box to tick and space to fill in mydetails.

I looked atChester - with his paws sitting on the mouse - then I looked backat the screen. I looked at Chester again, his eyes blinkinginnocently in the glow from the webpage. It was impossible for thetwo things to be linked, and yet they seemed to be. An eeriefeeling came over me, like a ghost was leaning over myshoulder.

One of theman’s eyes in the photograph peeked out from behind the pop-upwindow with a warmth that seemed to chase the ghost away. Almost asif he were inviting me to fill in my details. Without stopping tothink about it, I typed in my name - Rosemary Woodvine - and myemail address, and hit the enter button.

*

The smiling manin the photograph was called Horace, a name he was embarrassedabout and always shortened to Riss. He told me he’d been teasedrotten at school and called Horrible Horace and other, lessgracious, names. It had knocked his confidence for six and, whilefriends of his were busy going out with girls and kissing behindthe bike sheds, he was on his own reading books or building trainsets.

By saying that,it’s probably obvious that my request to connect with Riss wasaccepted. We exchanged emails for a few days, finding out littlebits about each other and generally chatting, until he finallyinvited me out for a meal. Of course, I said yes.

He had the samesmiling eyes in person as he had in the photograph. In fact, helooked exactly the same, a forty-two year-old face with an amazingamount of confidence for a man once known as Horrible Horrace. Hewas dressed in a smart shirt and lived-in jeans; like he’d made aneffort, but hadn’t tried too hard. He made our meeting relaxed andcomfortable without the pressure that often comes with a firstdate.

We talked andtalked over our meals of pollo farcito and salmone paradiso at theItalian restaurant in the centre of town. It was a nice place, nottoo posh to be intimidating, and not too scummy either. We spenttwo hours together and had gone through starter, main course anddessert, before I even thought to look at my watch.

‘How are yougetting home, Rosemary?’ he asked as