Fig

If men are unreasonable beasts, then women are sheer madness. Micah couldn’t stand either; she preferred the company of her hairless cat, Fig.

It was for him that she collected the blankets. With no hair, he needed warmth, and there was a fabric and texture for every mood. Sometimes Fig was perky and needed something colorful, sometimes an earth-toned mohair was just perfect. But, you never knew which you’d need, and therefore had to be prepared.

On Monday she usually checked the discount store near the bank. She could go there on her work break and see if anything new had come in. Then she would go get coffee. If she had found a blanket, the coffee would be a celebration; if she had not, it would make her feel better. Today she had found a bright runner made of Indian sari silk that she was planning to double up and edge with tassels. It had been a good day.

Micah stood close to the door and waited for the line to get smaller. She shrugged her glasses further up onto her nose and brushed the hair away from her eyes. It had been too long since the last haircut and her bangs were tickling her nose. She liked hiding behind them, sometimes, like when the man at the grocery counter tried to talk to her or when she couldn’t decide what coffee to get. She quickly hid behind the fat man ordering a latte and ran through the tastes in her mind—sweet, cinamonny, mocha. Nothing fit. It made her angry and she left before anyone could look at her for long, or wonder what she hid beneath her baggy clothes.

Fig seemed to like the runner. She gave it to him when she got home from work, and explained to him that it wasn’t quite done. She stroked his warm downy body and thought he was the cutest thing she had ever seen. The mean man delivering a package yesterday had laughed and said Fig looked like a large rat. That wasn’t nice—you don’t insult someone’s cat.

Tuesday morning Fig was asleep when she woke up. She put on her black pants and her large brown sweater and decided she would chance the coffee shop again.

The café boy looked like the boyfriend she used to have until he decided he liked her best friend better. The tears, phone calls, threats, and broken windows had not convinced them otherwise. Micah had been forced to move away to live alone in a new place with Fig, who loved her truly.

“Large regular,” she said to the boy. “The largest you’ve got. No cream.” She got her money out so she could leave quickly and a high-heeled woman in a pin-striped suit bumped her elbow and did not notice. Micah turned red and tried to focus her hate on the woman’s back the way you would crisp an ant with a magnifying glass on a hot, summer’s day. People never seemed to notice her. She wanted to say something, to reach out and grab her and say hey, watch out, but people were crazy nowadays and you couldn’t be too safe. She didn’t want to be too late to drop her bags off at the consignment store, anyway.

Fig had too many blankets, that was true. You could only keep so many before you couldn’t justify buying any more, and it was important to keep up with the latest fashion. Micah found if she brought a bag or so to the consignment store every season or so, it kept the closet manageable and made Fig’s choice easier. Some women had problems with money, couldn’t keep control of it. Mica budgeted. Every now and then she would splurge, like for example if she found something in a delectable cashmere, or a cool linen in Summer. She felt good about herself. This weekend she could buy something new, and she and Fig would be happy.

“Excuse me,” the boy said, trying to get her attention. “You pick up your coffee over there.” He pointed toward the end of the counter where the woman in the business suit had already moved and was waiting impatiently. She was tapping her high-heeled shoe, the pointy tip striking the floor over and over again.

Micah walked next to her and gathered her courage. “It’s not even your turn,” she said. Fig would hate her. There wasn’t even a speck of hair on her suit. She probably hated cats and had a boyfriend who called her every three days and took her out to expensive restaurants after work.

The woman looked at her. Didn’t seem to care, like everybody else. This is why Micah worked by herself, in the little stall at the bank. The other women talked behind her back, literally, shouted their giggles from one end of the bank to the other and gossiped about the customers, but Micah kept to herself. No one seemed to mind or notice. The woman was tapping, tapping, and the coffee was taking too long.

“It’s not your turn,” she said again, loudly. But she would not, could not wait, and ran out the door. The small, tied bags were still in the back of her car, ready to go. Perhaps this afternoon she could let herself go to Macy’s and pick out something soft. Fig would be waiting, as always, patiently.