Later that next Thursday Liza appeared from the back room. I’d had the place to myself for a week and I almost resented her being there. I was beginning to feel proprietorial. Then again, she was the proprietor. To be honest, I hadn’t felt entirely in charge. I’d met the cat.
There had been a scratching at the Other Door in the back room. The cafe was obviously away in some other dimension, so I’d been told not to open it. That was easy enough, because the door wasn’t usually there. It was a blank wall with a poster blutacked to it. It was a bright yellow cinema playbill for ‘Casablanca’ starring George Raft & Hedy Lamarr. That used to give me the willies. Sometimes it’d say ‘starring Ronald Reagan and Anne Sheridan’ .
I digress, it wasn’t usually a door though. Then it was a door and something was yowling to come in. What can you do? Apparently they don’t make pan-dimensional cat doors. Anyhow, I let him in and fed him some kangaroo mince from the fridge. It’s a relationship now, but pretty much master/servant. I’ve had cats before though. That’s what they’re like.
I think Liza is happy to have someone to talk to. ‘Someone sane’ as she says. I bring her some tea..I’ve learnt that if I want Earl Grey, I need to use a teabag. The teapot simply won’t be emptied. I bought a nice packet of English Breakfast, but I couldn’t get the lid off. It only accepts Indian chai tea, but it seems happier adding the stuff itself.
‘Yes,’ says Liza, ‘it’s like that.’
Another cat, another teapot