I was a black cat. He was a prophylactic. There was an immediate attraction.

It was New Year’s Eve. He must have been to several parties that night. His plastic wrap was no longer clinging to his form.

His name was Phil. He had smooth tan skin, thick dark brown hair falling below his collar—actually, he couldn’t have worn a collar, condoms are casual attire—and a face that any woman could love.

It was 1976, maybe ’77. He was in graduate school. So was I. He told me he had purchased property in Costa Rica because it was the only country without a military. I knew then I could fall for him. The guy was politically pleasing, he was sexy, he had enough money to buy property, and he was attracted to me.

We didn’t go home together that night. He left with a woman dressed as a diaphragm. They must have come together. I watched him kiss her at midnight.

He called me the next day. He wanted to see me without my costume.

At the masquerade party, my head was covered with a black skullcap with cute little feline ears. My face had been hidden with whiskers and extreme make-up. He’d probably been attracted to my body. I wore a black leotard and tights. I was a size 5 then. At age 23, I was more of a fox than a cat.

We met again. He wasn’t wearing cellophane. Let’s just say we had a good time that night and during later get-togethers.

One afternoon, he came over with a flower for me. Not just any flower, but a Protea exima. I’d never seen one before. If you don’t know the flower, let me tell you, it is impressive. The Protea is not at all like the revered long stemmed rose whose romance falls flaccid after a couple of days. This mauve flower has endurance and can stand upright for a whole two weeks. The centerpiece is a dense mysterious core, pink with purple tips and a mass of fine hair.

The relationship was blooming. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. On my way home from class one day, I dropped by Phil’s house. It was a spontaneous act. I hadn’t been to his place, but we’d driven by it. I parked my VW Bug, walked to the door and knocked. Phil welcomed me inside. As I stood in the entryway, he introduced me to his roommate, the diaphragm, who took his hand as our conversation shortened. Backing out the door, I glanced at the dining room table adorned with two familiar Protea flowers.

I never heard from him again, nor did I want to. Later, I called him, not on the phone, but rather, several foul names. He gave me something else I’d never seen before — tiny creatures commonly called crabs. My only consolation was that the diaphragm wouldn’t have been protected from them either.

Trix Niernberger's stories have been published in flashquake, Laughter Loaf, Amoret and The Wichita Eagle. Write her at tniernberger@cox.net.

Copyright 2002 by Trix Niernberger

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