originally published on Queen Mob’s Tea House

I am not an archivist. I’m a consulting records appraiser, which is low in a departmental hierarchy, but I like it. I move on when my contact it up, and I’m usually ready. I was especially ready after six months at the National Archives.

My contact at the Archives was a well-intentioned post-grad named Maggie. Maggie was earnest enough to labor under the false impression that co-workers should bond. After six months, I knew more about her cat than anyone should. 

Maggie was nice though and I liked her well enough, so we arranged to have lunch on my last day. We were on our way out the door when a gaggle of archivists called her name. They were celebrating someone’s promotion and wanted to know if Maggie could join them. Maggie looked torn and it got awkward real fast, so I jumped in to tell her to go ahead.

I was people’d out and happy to grab a sandwich on my way home, but Maggie is a social person and can’t imagine anyone being happy eating lunch alone with a podcast. Before I could stop her, she asked if I could come too.

There was an even more awkward, agonizing pause before a mulleted ape of an archivist said, (really grudginly) “yeah, like I guess. If she wants to”. The implication was very much that she hoped that I wouldn’t want to. The subtext was so textual that I smiled brightly and said “I’d love to come.”

Petty? Absolutely. Plus, I most certainly would not have loved to come, so I screwed myself over too. I was just reactively pissed. It’s not like Martha Lynn Baxter (the archivist ape) and I were strangers. We had worked together, (albeit unpleasantly), for six months, and I was standing next to her well-marbled ass when she extended her grudging invitation, so I’m petty, but she’s rude. Screw you, Baxter.

Zelda, who was also in the room, met my eyes. Zelda is my mountain lion. We’ve always been together. When I was a girl, she was a cub. Now that I’m in my thirties, she’s a lithe, fully grown puma, (no fucking courage jokes, please). This sort of thing runs in my family. My mom has a cheetah named Richard. They’re in their golden years now, so they bustle more than run, but they’re just happy together. That’s how it is with me and Zelda. Content to be on our own….

Anyway, now our tolerable one-on-one lunch had turned into a clusterfuck of a group activity. At least they were going to a Greek place. Zelda loves Greek.

The whole gaggle trooped to the restaurant in two’s and three’s. I walked with Zelda behind the main group. It was actually kind of sweet the way they marched down the street like homeschooled kids on a fieldtrip. Not having lunch at their desks was clearly a big deal.

The restaurant was super small, so the waitress with a bobcat girded herself as the archivists dove for seats, jockeying for position like it was high-stakes musical chairs. I hate musical chairs. I waited for the feathers to settle and took a seat at the end of the table. Zelda curled up at my feet. 

Spare staff hurried out with flat bread and fresh olives, which were absolutely delicious. Much to their credit, no one stepped on the tawny tail sticking out from under my chair. Meanwhile, the conversation rolled on, fueled by the first of four bottles of wine.

I closed my eyes. These people talked a lot, but now, thank Christ, to me, overall. Zelda was grumbling under the table, making do with the olives I slipped her while we waited for her lamb. Zelda has a punctual appetite and she gets cranky when her food is not equally punctual. With a cafe that small and group that big, it wasn’t surprising that the food was long in coming. I kept slipped her appetizers, hoping that if I gave her enough olives, the worst wouldn’t happen. This was optimistic, but you can only do your best. It’s not like I could make the kitchen move faster. 

So, the conversation flowed around the boulder of my presence, and Zelda shifted restlessly and wuffled against my ankle. I looked down and stroked her ear, which she finds soothing. I find it soothing too. Pretty soon, I was daydreaming.

“So, what’s next?”

I looked up. My old buddy, Martha Lynn Baxter, had deigned to address me. “Sorry, what was that?”

“What’s next,” she said again, pitching her voice to be heard above the chatter. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?” I asked.  I knew what she meant. I’d been passed up for a permanent position. I met her eyes and let my face slip into neutral.

“Oh, well,” she said, recalibrating her approach. “You know. Tenures don’t grow on trees.”

I smiled, trying to pass for a nice person. “Sure don’t. I’ll shake some bushes. Something will come up.”

“Whatever you say,” she said, smiling her simian smile. “Hey, I feel like I should tell you, I was the one who voted against you for the tenure position.”

I raised my brows. I wasn’t surprised by what she’d said, but I was shocked that she’d said. I looked around the table but everyone as still chatting as if she’d asked how I liked my ice tea. “Did you really,” I said, modulating my tone. Zelda gets agitated when I’m pissed. She must have sensed something though because she growled under the table. Her stomach followed. She was probably hangry. I checked the breadbasket. Empty. No sign of the waiter either. I bent and stroked her ear. Zelda shook my hand off and rounded the table before slipping back under the tablecloth.

Baxter nodded and shrugged. Baxter’s got balls, I acknowledged with reluctant respect.

“I”d love to know why,” I said, silkily.

“It was nothing personal,” Baxter said, bluffly assured. “I just couldn’t stand the thought of looking at your smug fucking face every day until I retire.”

I heard Zelda licked her chops beneath the table. I made meaningful eye contact and shook my head. She ignored me and bit Martha Lynn Baxter’s foot clean off. Baxter looked at me, expectantly. She had no idea that Zelda was tucking in.

“What do you have to say to that?”

“I’m sorry?” I asked. It’s not like me to drop a conversational thread, but having just finished her foot—clog and all—Zelda was gnawing her way through Martha Lynn’s savory calf.

“To the fact that lost a job because you’re so fucking unlikable,” Baxter clarified, oblivious to the animal chomping at her leg.

“Not much to say, is there,” I said. 

“Guess not,” Baxter jerked in her chair as Zelda gnawed at her belt. She settled back down when Zelda made it through. Martha Lynn Baxter stared at me, retaining her focus while Zelda chomped at her torso. That kind of focus is serious. I began to wonder about her.

Moments later, the waitress put Zelda’s lamb on the floor. I murmured my thanks and nudged it with my foot. Zelda probably wouldn’t eat it now. Maybe for dessert…. Across the table, what was left of Martha Lynn Baxter (not much) attacked her risotto. Zelda was still nibbling. At this point, I was pissed, but holding it together like a fucking class act. I cut into my mousaka, conversationed out.

A few minutes later, Martha Lynn Baxter was gone, leaving behind half a plate. I reached over and took a bite. The risotto was excellent—subtle, creamy, perfect. I made a mental note to order it next time. 

“Where did M.L. go?’ Oblivious to her presence, Baxter’s assistant nudged Zelda with his shoe. Zelda licked her chops. Her whiskers stood out from her muzzle, as if to salute meal. I looked pointedly at her lamb. Zelda smiled her big cat smile and bit the assistant. I shook my head and cut into my lavash. The whole department could fuck itself.

After gobbling up her second course in three happy bites, Zelda proceeded around the table, purring as she went. Incidentally, mountain lions are the only big cats that can purr—they’re exceptional that way. I love it when Zelda purrs. It’s one of my favorite things.

The din of conversation grew quieter as Zelda worked her way around the table. I could finally hear myself think, thank fuck. I poured myself a glass of wine and ordered dessert, still not full despite having helped myself to half of Baxter’s risotto. I’d just finished my baklava when Zelda ambled back. The table was empty. She sighed, fat and satisfied. I signaled for the check, but it was already covered on the Archive’s expense account, which was a pretty sweet surprise.

Zelda and I collected our things. I was absolutely stuffed. The waitress came by with Zelda’s lamb wrapped to go, but neither of us could look at it so we offered it to her bobcat. She introduced him as Mel. Then they thanked us and we left. I hadn’t eaten that much in ages. I must have been hungrier than I thought.

THE END