Sunday The Cat vs. Hannah The Stripper

In my late 20’s, I met a woman named Hannah. Hannah was a dancer – an exotic dancer. All right, Hannah was a stripper.

“Dancer?” as an old drunk at her club once said, “These girls aren’t exactly Ginger Rogers. Hell, most of ‘em can’t even dance as well as Roy Rogers!”

Anyway, Hannah and I went out on a few dates and enjoyed each other’s company. I asked her to my apartment and invited her to sit on the couch as I went to the kitchen to make some drinks. She smiled, crossed her incredibly long legs, and elegantly lit a cigarette. After a few minutes I heard,

“What is it with this cat? Why is it staring at me?”

Damn! Sunday the Cat was on the coffee table, intensively eyeing this possible rival.  Hannah grew up on a farm. Cats lived in her family’s barn only to keep down the mice and rat population. Having one as an indoor pet was like making a pet of a chicken.

“Oh.” I lied, “That means she likes you.” Hannah looked at me skeptically through her cigarette smoke. It seemed men may have lied to her before.  Read more here.

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