Obsession - I

Amy Rubbert sat on her little balcony. She stared out at the street without seeing anything. Her eyes were focused on a spot far, far away, somewhere deep in her mind's eye. Her long ears twitched forward and then backward as she chewed on her pencil for inspiration.

She leaned her head on her hands and sighed loudly. "What is love?"

She started scribbling—Love is like a red, red rose. Love is like the wind.

Love is honesty.

"These seem very cliché," she said out loud.

Love is a dusty old book on the shelf—it makes you feel comfy.

Amy pulled on the tip of one long rabbit ear. "No, that doesn't sound right." She bent over her notebook again.

Love is a fragile flower.

Amy nodded slowly.

Love is like ice.

She gave her pencil an extra chew. "That sounds a bit cold. But sometimes love is cold. Love is passion. Love is friendship. Love is family and friends." Amy's voice got louder and louder with each new idea.

She put her pencil down with a bang. "This isn't so easy, especially 'coz I don't know if I've ever really been in love. But isn't in love different from just loving someone?" Amy rubbed the back of her head. "Hmm? This should be so easy, but it's not. I think I might take a trip over to see Monica—she's always good at teasing out these sorts of conundrums."

It was a beautiful day, and the sun was high in the sky. Amy hummed to herself as she packed a little backpack with her pencils, pens, and a couple of notebooks. She wasn't sure which one she would find the most inspirational today.

Amy let herself out of her little flat. "Goodbye, little house."

I love my little home, she mused. It's not big or anything special, but it's my safe place. I think that safety is an important part of love.

Downstairs, Amy unlocked her bike and checked the tires to make sure they were fully pumped up. She admired the metallic color of her bike in the sunshine. "I love my little bike."

She unlatched the buckle on her helmet and plopped it on her head—her ears were not behaving today, she had been thinking too hard, and one stuck out the back of the helmet and the other out the front. It didn't feel comfortable.

"I hate that!"

Amy's frowned in contemplation. Hate; now that might be interesting. If I juxtapose love with hate, I'll get a lot of friction. I wonder if you can have love without hate?

"Wow! Now that's something I hadn't considered." Her shoulders fell.

"Perhaps because I've never experienced true love?"

Amy sighed deeply and continued to ponder as she swung herself up onto the saddle and peddled away down the road.

She was deep in her thoughts and took no notice of her surroundings—

Amy knew the way to Monica's bar so well, she could do the route on autopilot. She only looked up as she cycled under the big concrete overpass.

So ugly, she thought, and she shivered a bit as the sun was blocked out momentarily. Amy didn't like the noise of the overpass; the trucks and cars rumbled over the top of it at an alarming speed and one could feel the vibrations in the tarmac road beneath.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, she glanced around. She noticed what looked like a large bundle of clothes lying in the crook of the bridge. It was dark, and she couldn't see it clearly, but it seemed to have the form of a figure. Amy was a bit afraid in case it was someone dangerous, but she was more concerned in case it was someone sleeping rough—they might need help. Amy had a big social conscience.

It might just be a bundle of clothes, she thought. But if it's a person, maybe I can help them? She hopped off her bike, leaned it against a road bollard, and walked a little warily toward the bundle.

"Hello," she called from a little bit away. "Are you okay?"

"I'll laugh at myself if it's just a bundle of clothing," she giggled.

Suddenly the bundle sat up. The giggle froze in Amy's throat, and she jumped back about half a meter. Her voice quivered a bit. "Hello, are you okay?"

The figure rose in one fluid movement and turned to face her. His movements were liquid, and she noted that his shoulders were quite emaciated. Amy found herself staring unashamedly into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Suddenly, that was all she could see. She was riveted by the crystal blue eyes shining out of the darkness.

From a sitting position, the figure now pulled himself out of the cocoon of stained bedding until he was standing before her. He was the most magnificent black panther that Amy had ever set eyes on. The fur and skin on his body were black as night, and although he was thin, you could clearly see the wonderful musculature that lay beneath his skin. He was all sinew and strength. He reminded Amy of a powerful spring, wound tight and ready to let go at any second.

"Hello…o…o, are you okay?" she stuttered again.

His voice was gentle, warm, and deep, though a bit raspy. "Hello. I'm fine, just a bit out of luck, really, but that's life, I guess."

Amy stared into the blue eyes, mesmerized. "What's your name? The panther blinked slowly. Amy noticed his stiff whiskers turn up at the corners. "You can call me Mitch," he purred.

In a split second, Amy forgot about Monica or why she was cycling under the bridge. All she could think about was this person who stood before her.

She had never seen anyone as handsome or intriguing, and she just wanted to find out all about him. There was another thing she felt; although he was a man, he seemed vulnerable and childlike—he towered over her, and yet she wanted to take care of him.

Amy knew it was inappropriate but heard herself saying, "Would you like to come back to my house for a coffee? You could get a shower, too, and I've got plenty to eat."

"Sure," said Mitch. "As long as I wouldn't be an imposition?"

So polite, she thought. "Not at all. No imposition. No problem at all."

Mitch traveled light. He kicked back the last remnants of the soiled bedding and stooped gracefully to pick up a faded denim jacket and a small backpack. His movements were beautiful, like a dancer, though Amy now noticed his arms and hands were speckled with scars. What sort of a life has he led? she wondered.

Amy wheeled her bike, and Mitch sauntered along beside her. She inhaled his odor and found it very pleasing. She relaxed, and Mitch began to tell his story.

"I never knew my parents. I was left outside the fire station in a cardboard box. The fire-fighter who found me was a skunk called Guy Mitchell; that's how I got my name. That's usually how it works. I was really sick for the first few weeks, and my body was full of drugs. My mother was obviously an addict, so it was touch and go, although I have no memory of that time, of course."

"How dreadful for you. Who brought you up?"

"Well, I was difficult; I won't deny it. I moved around a few foster homes, but no one really stuck. Eventually, when I was twelve, I just ran away from foster care, and no one came looking for me."

"But how did you live? Wash? And where did you sleep?"

"The street was my home. I grew up pretty quickly, and I wasn't the only one. There are lots of kids like me. I can't say we looked out for each other—it was more like dog eat dog, but there is some sense of camaraderie on the streets; sort of like an under-society. That's where I lived."

"How did you get food?"

Mitch's face lit up at the mention of food. "The best place to go are those big bins behind the restaurants. Do you know how much food is wasted every week? Restaurants throw out an amazing amount. I used to go early and take a big backpack with me. Because of my color, I could largely go unobserved, and climbing into a dumpster was easy for me. I used to fill the pack and return to one of the homeless settlements that I knew of and

traded food for other things I needed. I was a great food scavenger from an early age. I love food, though you can't tell."

"No, not really," Amy mused, looking over his boney frame, "but you are very strong, too."

"Yes, that's partly my physique and partly the street fighting—those are the scars too."

Out in the daylight, Amy could see the scarring clearly. There were scars everywhere on Mitch's poor body. "It's pretty rough on the streets, eh?"

Mitch flashed his blue eyes at her. "It's no place for a lady like yourself."

Amy blushed. He called me a lady. She felt her heart thumping in her chest and could think of absolutely nothing intelligent to say.

Just then, the two came to a corner, and as they rounded it, they almost bumped headlong into Monica Leap, who was out for a jog. She was wearing a hot pink, elasticated jogging suit that clung to every curve of her body, and over her ears, a pair of sound canceling headphones that were color coordinated with her outfit. She looked stunning as usual, and Amy felt a sudden pang of jealousy.

"Hi, Amy?" Monica lowered her designer sunglasses and looked over the two of them. "Who's your friend?"

Amy thought that Monica looked Mitch up and down rather lustfully, and she was immediately on guard. "This is Mitch. He's coming round for coffee and telling me his life story."

Mitch made a low bow with a large hand flourish before the beautiful leopard and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms—?"

Monica's eyes narrowed. She wasn't sure that he was being sincere. "I'm Monica."

For a second or two, there was a slightly uncomfortable silence, and then Monica broke it, saying, "I've got to get on. Got to open the bar again at four and plenty to do before then. Nice to meet you, Mitch."

"You too, Ms. Monica, the beautiful leopard."

Amy felt a horrible possessive feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. She said nothing but was happy to move along and get 'her' Mitch back to her flat.