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25
Karma
That stupid conversation was yesterday. I haven’t seen the alphahole since. I had wanted to leave the bedroom I’ve been sharing with him and move into one of the guest rooms, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He had commanded me to stay and had walked out. He hadn’t come to bed, so I guess he’s sleeping somewhere else. Whatever. I’m not going to feel sorry for depriving him of his own bed. Not after what he did to me.
I woke up early this morning and he was gone. Good riddance! I took a quick shower, then headed down to the kitchen to check in on Andy…who had already been fed by Cassandra. I tried not to be jealous about that.
I grabbed his basket, as well as two bowls, one for his food and one for water, and a can of cat food, and brought them up to my studio with me. I settled him a corner, before continuing to work on my latest creation.
I’m not quite sure what it will be yet. I am still in the doodling stage. And yeah, I refuse to use the sketchbook he got me. I also haven’t touched the Andy Warhol book because… Well, I want to spite him. Maybe I’m spiting myself. But whatever.
I draw a design, then crumple up the paper and throw it aside. Draw the design again… Ugh! It sucks. I scrunch up the paper, toss it aside. To be honest, I don’t know exactly what it is that I am drawing here.
It’s often like that for me. I need to doodle first, wait for the design to emerge from my subconscious mind. Often, I have to draw for days on end before the motifs begin to reveal themselves. It’s like, by drawing, I plumb the images in my subconscious mind. I stare at my scribblings… The wide forehead, the hooked nose, the square jaw. Gah, it’s an outline of his stupid face.
Shit. Clearly, I have his features imprinted on my brain. OMG! This is soo not happening. I design clothes. I don’t draw people or profiles…but somehow, I have ended up etching his likeness instead of focusing on my new creation. I crush the paper between my palms, toss it over my shoulder.
"Ouch," a female voice protests, "I've never had a patient deck me with a paper ball, and that too, on our first meeting."
I turn to find a woman I have never seen before standing in the doorway.
"Who are you?" I scowl, "And haven’t you heard of knocking before entering?"
"I’m Doctor Aurora Garibaldi," she murmurs, "and I’m sorry, we’re normally not that formal in this part of the world."
"Well too-bloody-bad." I sniff, "In my part of the world, it’s polite to knock and ask permission before you enter a person’s room, and—" I stiffen, "did you say that you are a doctor?"
"I am." She tilts her head, "May I come in?"
My heart begins to beat faster and I don’t know why. No, I do know why, but I don’t want to acknowledge it. Yet.
"If I say you can’t," I say in a low voice, "what then?"
She blows out a sigh, "I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say, Karma. May I call you, Karma?"
"You know my name."
"Yes," she nods, "that’s what I want to talk to you about."
"Oh, hell."
I stare at her, and an uncomfortable silence descends between us, broken by a soft mewling from Andy’s basket.
I turn toward him at the same time as the doctor. I watch as Andy peeks over the side of the basket. He mewls again, then crawls out and my heart stutters. I walk over, lift him up in my arms.
"Oh, wow, you have a kitten?"
I don’t reply. Instead, I walk over to the arm chair near the window and sit down with the kitten in my arms.
"So sweet," she murmurs, still hovering by the doorway.
"I’m not sweet," I snap.
"The kitten, she’s—"
"He," I interrupt her. "It’s a he; his name is Andy, and I suppose you had better come in."
She nods, steps inside the room and shuts the door behind her. She walks over to take the chair on the opposite side of the table, then places the sleek satchel she’s brought with her on the floor. One thing about Italy—everyone seems to be dressed and carrying designer wear, like it’s the norm. Which, I guess it is here, considering that so many well-known designers are of Italian origin. Both of us watch as the kitten purrs in my arms, then snuggles in.
