She's here again.

I should tell her to leave.  That I won't do this any more.  That I'm a better man.  That she's a bad influence and I won't let her corrupt me any further.

But I won't.

It's in the voice really.  The tones are rich and sweet, like auditory Belgian chocolate, and as bad for my willpower as that chocolate is for your waistline.  And come to think of it, probably about as bad for my life expectancy.  By the time she's finished exchanging pleasantries, asking me how I've been, and answering when I ask how she's been, I'm already finished, and she knows it.

Just to ensure her victory is complete, or maybe to rub it in, she sashays her way over to the couch I'm sitting on.  I used to think of mechanical systems when I heard the phrase "poetry in motion."  Things like assembly line machines, or the bolt systems for automatic weapons; with their crisp, perfect movements that hit the same marks at the same speed every time.  But she's taught me the error of my ways.  The way she walks, THAT'S poetry.  Smooth, fluid, graceful.  No part of her body extended too far or stopped too short.  It isn't the precision of a machine, but it's oh so much more lovely.  By the time she sits next to me, whatever last holdouts are in my brain have fled the field.

She waits a few beats before she says anything else, grinning at me like an angler admiring a particularly nice fish on the end of his hook.  "You look tired," she says, in that same dulcet tone.  I tell her I've been sleeping well, and while I've certainly wanted to I know better than anyone I haven't lately.  The lie's so bald-faced it sounds weak to my own ears when I say it.  She lets out a little chuckle that could turn winter to spring if you put it through a megaphone and says "I'm sure you have."

She follows up while I'm still dazed by that laugh by reaching behind me and wrapping a hand around my far shoulder.  Her pull is so gentle it wouldn't take but an ounce of strength to resist, but I'm so past resisting I just follow her lead.  She pulls me down to rest my head in her lap, gently guiding me into the position she knows by heart is most comfortable for us.  When my head comes to rest, I figure my ear lies just above and a little in front of what a bad mother fucker once called "the holiest of holies."  Even through her skirt, I can feel the softness of her fur.  Like the ghost of a loved one, her tail drifts in from the corner of my vision, to situate itself directly in from of my face.  That strange, faint, but irresistible smell of pastries wafting with it.  She doesn't even have to give me permission, she knows I know what it means, and I immediately take it into my hands and begin to gently comb and pet it.

She gives a little sigh of contentment, before she starts idly running one of her hands through my hair.  She asks if I'm feeling sore anywhere today.  I resolve to resist her on this count at least, and say nothing.  But it doesn't matter.  She takes the hand that was stroking my hair, and places it against the back of my shoulders, gently digging her thumb into the space where my neck meets my shoulders.  She works it in little circles, and tells me "you wouldn't be so achy if you slept better."  You might think she was clairvoyant, but in truth I'm just that easy to read.  Her other hand takes over hair-stroking duties, the well-manicured claws just barely scratching my scalp.  If it were possible for men to physically melt like they do in Looney Tunes, I'd be sinking into the couch cushions about now.

Once she's had her fun with the human putty currently in her hands, she turns to business.  Her tone never changes, still nonchalant and vaguely warm, like we're still talking about the weather, even as she tells me about this journalist whose been pushing her a little to hard on some of her business dealings, and digging a little too deeply into the company's records.  When she says she'd very much like it if I went and "explained" to him just how annoying he was, she feels no need to press me for affirmation that I'll do it.  She knows I will.  I'd through babies off rooftops for what she can do to me.  Well, that might be a little extreme.  It is safe to say though that I already had the inclination to violence.  I'd have probably done stuff like this anyway.  That I get the best female experience this side of actual sex is just a bonus, and the fact that it all comes from what may be the prettiest creature to ever walk this earth is just a bonus on top of the other bonus.  You might be tempted to call me her slave, but that'd be an insult to actual slaves.  They at least were forced into it.  I could quit any time, but I choose to surrender ever time she bats those eyelashes, swishes that tail, and massages my ears with that lovely voice.

Then comes a curveball out of left field.  "I've been thinking, perhaps we should make this arrangement permanent."  What the hell is she on about now?  "After all, you've been nothing but helpful, and you really are a joy to be around.  It's occurred to me recently that it really isn't fair the way I treat you, drifting into your life when I need something done."  She's damn right it isn't, but I'm not complaining.  "So, if you'd like, I'd be happy to marry you, and give you someplace nicer to live than this lonely little hovel."  I can't quite bring myself to sit upright, but I do roll over in her lap so I can actually stare into her eyes.  They shine with that guile she always has in them, but even so, there's an earnestness and a warmth that I can't help but think is genuine.  Is she playing me like a fiddle?  Maybe.  Will this be the ultimate surrender?  Absolutely.  Does that bother me?  A little.  But do I believe she truly loves me?  That's the question, and she's too crafty, to dangerous, for me to really be sure this isn't just a well rehearsed act.  The questions must be swirling around on my face too, because she watches me intently all the while.  When I still haven't made up my mind several moments later, she breaks the silence again and says "Come to dinner with me.  We'll talk it over more, and get a good meal in you before you pay Mr. Nosy Reporter a visit.  Between the two, you'll have plenty of time to sort out your feelings for me, though I assure you mine are nothing but genuine.  All I'm asking is for you to think it over.  So, what do you say?"

Well, it's just dinner, right?