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“Yeah, territorial insecurity. You mentioned that.”
“We’re working on it,” Sully countered. “I’ve been laying out treats in the bedroom, and she’ll come and eat them when I’m in the room. She won’t take them from my hand yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Wow, you two are practically soul mates.” Hue scratched his shaggy jaw.
“And she’s actually using the litter box,” Sully bragged.
“So that’s your piss I’m smelling?” Hue wrinkled his nose.
Sully grimaced. He’d done his best to douse every spot with stain and odor remover. “Okay, she’s not perfect yet, but she’s getting a lot better,” he insisted. Probably best not to mention how his heart had squeezed with pride when he’d seen a little nugget of cat shit in the litter box this morning.
“I’m thrilled for you, truly.” Hue shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, brushed his hands off on his paint-stained t-shirt, and looked around hopefully.
“Another sandwich?” Sully asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
Sully pulled two more pieces of whole-grain wheat bread from the bag on his counter. He heard the kitchen chair squeak as Hue turned toward him.
“You know, I’m starting to form a theory,” his friend said.
“About what? Who shot JFK? Do tell.” Sully slapped a big helping of peanut butter on the bread.
“J. Edgar Hoover and the CIA. Everyone knows that,” Hue scoffed. “No, I got a theory about you. About this whole cat thing.” Hue smirked. “Clearly, it’s a distraction. You’re still hung up on that girl.”
Sully cleaned the knife in the sink, then dunked it into the jar of jelly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really?” Hue’s grin grew wider. “Blonde hair. Legs for days. Eyes that can shoot dick-severing laser beams at will. Ringing any bells?”
Sully smeared the jelly haphazardly on the bread. “Here.” He dropped the sandwich onto Hue’s plate, which had miraculously refilled with potato chips from the now-empty bag laying in the center of the table.
Hue ignored the sandwich. “You’re too chicken shit to ask her out, so now you’re playing crazy cat dude to soothe your soul.”
“I, uh…”Damn, when did English become Sully’s second language behind sputtering?
“What happened with the banister?” Hue turned to his plate and took a huge bite of the sandwich. “That was a work of art. Should have been guaranteed pussy.”
“Hey!” Sully barked. “Don’t talk about Alanna’s… uh…”
“Pussy?”
“Dude!”
Hue studied him while chewing loudly, then nodded to himself. “You blew it. Didn’t you?”
Blew it. Yep, as in almost blew up Alanna’s house with her mother inside. Hue didn’t know how right he was.
“It didn’t work out,” Sully grumbled.
“What a waste of my carpentry skills.” Hue crunched down a mouthful of chips. “But you’re better off, trust me. Women are nothing but trouble. And that woman, in particular, is hell in a very sexy handbasket.”
*
Later that night, Sully sat on the far edge of the floral couch—somehow, the massive drool spot left by Janet still hadn’t dried—and strummed his guitar. The last rays of the setting sun filtered through the living room windows and lamplight shone across the massive new cat condo sitting at the back of the room. Sully’s shoulders ached from using the wood saw and sander all morning, but those small pains were worth the result. The cat condo was a true work of art.
Slowly and methodically, Sully worked his way through his opening guitar exercises, moving his left hand up and down the neck of the instrument, while the fingers of his right hand strummed the chords. The sound was becoming smoother, the notes transitioning more fluidly. According toThe Sully Project, he’d completed exactly 46 hours of guitar practice. Only 9,954 to go until he hit 10,000 hours, the so-called milestone of expertise.
Sully smiled to himself. Inch by inch. Hour by hour. He’d get there… eventually.
