Cats and Alcohol

I get a call about from Mr. Hard Body Security.
He lost his cat.
You know who I distrust? Grown men with cats. Why do you own a cat? Why do you own two cats? Why don’t you own a dog like a normal person? Why are you so hot and project that you want something casual and then start telling me otherwise and making me playlists and telling me you want me you want me to help you pick paint colors for your new house? (Side note: Why do all the guys in my recent past have houses???)

Anyways, his cat. It’s lost. He calls me to come help him walk the neighborhood to look for it.
My best friend: Why are you going? This means he thinks you’re together. You can’t go. Don’t go.

I go.
He’s drunk.
He skipped work and started drinking because he is heart broken.
About a cat.
I have no heart.

I also have no patience, apparently. I walk with him while he calls out to his cat. I hope that I don’t see anyone I know.
I’m wearing high waisted shorts and a striped, cropped tee. He tells me “You look hot. Like a sailor pinup model. I like it.” Then squeezes my ass.

When I start to leave, he also moves to get in to his truck. He’s drunk at this point. Completely. I tell him he needs to go inside and pour out his drink and wait. I move to help him do this.
“If you pour it out, I’ll just wait until you leave to make another.”

I stare at Mr. Hard Body Security underneath my furrowed brow. I say “Fine. You have a good night.” I get in my car and I leave. I see him pouring out his drink in my rearview mirror.

He snapchats me a few days later. But I’m done. I have no room in my life for alcohol abuse.

Or cats for that matter.