(Ailurophile: A cat lover)
My heart breaks for that one; you know the woman covered in bushes of orange and brown or the occasional patch of black drifting from the spot just above her right shoulder. The technical term for a woman such as this is ailurophile. It rolls off the tongue don’t you think?
They come in many forms; hiding behind closed doors keeping the worlds at bay, save for the four legged furry creatures who became their children of choice. Sometime they manage to keep things together. Litter boxes cleaned and cleared, the fuzz swept up by one of those rounding robo things offering a poor critter a short ride into the broken mantle hanging down from the wall.
For the unfortunate ones with no place to call their own, those of us civilized folks walk right past them in the park, trying our darnedest to not notice the ammonia permeating from the soiled garments covered in things I dare not dream of identifying. Eyes covered, head hung low we rush along our way without a thought as cold hands rub over fur for warmth.
They’re not all off of their rockers you know. They just really enjoy the company of beings who know when not to bother others just as they wish to no bother us. So call them what you will: Bitch don’t ever, no matter how tempted, call that one a crazy cat lady.
(Lissome: Easily flexed, nimble)
The pedestrian crossed over me with the nimble dexterity of a drunken gymnast and I internally sighed as he lifted his phone to archive my embarrassment. It was going to take forever for those aid workers to get out her and lift me off the pavement. When my seventies styled pauperize had decided that I was no longer of interest, my situation sunk to a new low when the patter of fury paws was upon me. The lissome creature folded, bulked and wriggled between my nooks and crannies until, much to my chagrin, the bastard lifted his shaggy leg and urinated upon my ridged bark.
Joshua hadn't yet looked up from cleaning his nails. In fact, he had finished a full two and a half minutes before, but he kept his gaze carefully downward and fidgeted his fingers, maintaining the pretense. This was his common practice when he wished to avoid what he presumed would be an uncomfortable, or at the very least, annoying interaction with another human being. His true friends recognized this about him. Delano leaned back, apparently having abandoned even the hope that he might still seem to harbor any humility. He couldn't help it; being right was at the very core of his life's aspirations. He waited for some acknowledgment from the other man, who still seemed to be trying to get his nails clean. Joshua breathed once, deeply and stared briefly out the window. He knew Delano was prone to some weird notions but this whole business about the Gods in the garden hammock seemed pure piffle. Not quite dumb enough to be naive, not quite intentional to be absurd, it just hovered in the vast middle ground of plain, undecorated idiocy. Like a foolish idea heard once and cherished without the benefit of reason; yet in his own words it has his direct experience that he had met and spoken with God, or at least A God, whom he had accidentally woken up from his nap right there in the garden hammock. Joshua considered monetarily an attempt to look directly at Delano. He decided ungracefully to just keep staring at the trees waving lazily outside. "That's bullshit," he said, rather blandly.
(Veridical: Truthful; corresponding to the facts, real, genuine)
Bria would be tortured if she were a bit more introspective. Victor would be her knight in shining armor if he were a bit more considerate. Love Reciprocated is the veridical tale of their affair du coeur.
(Sang-froid: French. Literally means cold-blood)
Recently, I watched the Count of Monte Cristo. Dumas's brilliance aside, the actor Jim Caviezel's portrayal of Edmond Dantes had a certain sang-froid. A beautiful reptilian quality that made you shiver through and through.