QUARTER-LIFE | HS

SUNDAY

"He's the coolest guy in the room when he's shitfaced!" Harry says to himself aloud in a mocking tone and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Douche."

When Rhiannon climbs on to his lap, and effectively covers it with her hair, Harry tosses the filter out to scoop her up and go inside. She paws at his face from his cradled arms, and he releases her onto the carpet to prevent any further hair from sticking to his clothes.

He's guessing that she doesn't want to be inside, which makes sense because she was a stray before Harry found her on his way home from the bar two years ago. Rhiannon was too chunky and angelic to be a street cat, so he brought her home immediately and she's been by his side (or strewn atop him) ever since.

Harry realizes he's still barefoot when he steps on some milk Niall had apparently spilled. After he re-enters the kitchen to wash his hands and wipe his foot off, he catches a glimpse of an oblong brown thing behind their coffeemaker. It's a bottle of whiskey with a wrinkled note stuck to it over a very hard piece of gum that reads "IN CASE OF EMERGENCY".

He wonders if this is Niall's idea of home invasion protection or if he's just worried about last-minute guests. Either is plausible, he thinks as he pads into his bedroom, which is most likely two square feet bigger than the kitchen and lit up only by a wooden lamp Mr. Frank let him take when he moved out.

Yesterday was a good day, and he was starting to feel okay after taking time to re-charge with an uninterrupted string of bad movies about eating disorders and stolen newborns— until Niall told him about today's set up. He still feels terrible about going off on Anna.

He's on his bed and staring at the boots on his feet, feeling a pang of discomfort at the thought of his behavior on Friday and hoping things go well with her tonight. He thinks she's very good-looking and nice to talk to when she isn't upset at him, and he'll feel terrible if she spends the rest of her life hating him (with reason) for a little bout of anxiety.

Rhiannon meows lazily and snaps him out of his trance.

"What are you doing there?" The crease in his forehead deepens as he watches Rhiannon stretch across a shirt he's apparently forgotten to throw in the wash. His eyes widen when he notices the dark spot on it, and he immediately knows that she's just peed all over the same shirt that had survived Friday's coffee spill.

"Rhiannon," Harry groans. So much for his favorite shirt.

"Hello, little one," Niall says in a small voice as the brown cat curls around his feet. He's already showered and dressed. "What's she doing?"

"She pissed all over my shirt," Harry whines from the floor. He's plugging his nose with one hand and holding the button-up with the other, and he stands to give Niall a better look. "I don't have time to wash it."

"D'you think that detergent thing will work on it?"

"Good idea," Harry says, sprinting into the living room to fish it out of his briefcase.

He lays the shirt on the coffee table (not without protest from Niall) and basically pummels the pen into the fabric. It's refusing to clear up after a few minutes under the detergent and a few more in the kitchen sink, during which Harry tries to convince Niall that Rhiannon is upset because he bailed on her on Friday.

"Just throw it away, man."

"This is my favorite shirt, Niall."

"It's gonna smell like cat piss forever. Remember when she did it all over my jumper after I forgot to wish her a happy Thanksgiving?" Niall asks through a laugh and walks over to grab the shirt and throw it into the kitchen bin.