George, Again.

“Oh, George! You mustn’t be so jealous—it’s only a date! And a first one at that!” Pearl cajoled the four-year-old tabby, named after her late husband.

George (the cat) replied with a low, disapproving mew, his amber eyes narrowing as his tail flicked back and forth like a metronome of judgment.

Pearl often joked that the human George and the feline George shared similar traits: bottomless appetites, an irritable intolerance for anyone monopolizing Pearl’s time, and for knowing when something was wrong—even when she didn’t.

Her apartment, the brownstone she shared with George the human when he passed, was a living scrapbook of a life unapologetically lived. Macramé plant hangers dangled from the ceiling, their trailing vines brushing against shelves cluttered with treasures from flea markets and distant travels. A ceramic bust of David wore a pair of oversized, rhinestone-studded sunglasses, and a lava lamp—faded but still valiantly bubbling—stood sentinel beside a stack of well-thumbed paperbacks.

The walls were a collage of eras: framed black-and-white photos of Pearl in her youth—laughing with friends on sun-drenched beaches, standing beside a cherry-red Camaro that had long since been traded for sensible sedans. Mixed among them were vibrant abstract paintings from local artists, a dusty cassette rack filled with everything from Fleetwood Mac to Devo, and an embroidered sampler that read, “Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.”

She adjusted her stockings in the mirror, tugging the black lace thigh-high into place with practiced grace. Her legs were still shapely, she thought with a small smile—sixty-seven years, and they’d held up. She slipped on her favorite navy dress with red polka dots, the fabric a little tighter than she remembered but still flattering.

George leapt onto the vanity, his tail swiping across Pearl’s phone. The screen lit up with a new message.

"Counting the moments until I see you, my dearest pearl of the sea."

George stared at the glowing screen, then slowly, dramatically, rolled his eyes.

“Oh, stop it,” Pearl laughed, dabbing a touch of rose-scented perfume behind her ears. “You never wrote me poetry.”

George blinked, unimpressed.

Her phone buzzed again. “Running a bit late, darling. Just finishing up a call. Can’t wait to see you.”

Pearl’s heart fluttered. She slipped on her shoes—vintage pumps with scuffed soles from a lifetime of dancing—and blew a kiss toward George, leaving him perched like a brass-colored gargoyle, watching her go.

In the he evening air was cooler than she expected, carrying the faint metallic scent of impending rain though the sky remained stubbornly clear. As she rounded the corner of her street, her heel caught on a crack in the sidewalk, sending her stumbling—not a full fall, but enough to jolt her pride. She glanced around, half-hoping no one had seen, and muttered, “Just a little bad luck.”

At the bus stop, an old man sat hunched on the bench, a crumpled paper grocery bag resting at his feet. He looked up as Pearl approached, his red, watery eyes immediately dropping to her legs. He didn’t speak—just stared, his lips curling into a thin, unsettling smile.

Pearl shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, tugging the hem of her dress down to cover more of her knees. She turned slightly, pretending to inspect something in her purse, but his eyes didn’t waver.

The bus arrived late, creaking to a stop with a hiss like an exasperated sigh. She boarded quickly, grateful to put distance between herself and the silent stranger.

As she found a seat, she glanced back through the bus window. The man was still watching her, his smile unchanged.

La Petite Fleur

La Petite Fleur was charming in that predictable, bistro-on-a-corner way—dim lighting, flickering candles, and the faint smell of garlic and hope. Pearl arrived early, her heart tucked somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She ordered a glass of wine, her eyes flickering to the door every time it opened.

She waited.

And waited.

The candle burned lower. The wine glass remained half-full, the condensation slowly drying as time passed.

She refreshed her messages. Nothing. She checked his last text. “Can’t wait to see you.”

After an hour, the waiter approached with a polite, practiced smile. “Would you like to order, ma’am?”

Pearl swallowed her pride with the bitter taste of disappointment. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just head home.”


Back at home, the apartment felt colder than when she’d left. She kicked off her shoes by the door, the ache in her feet nothing compared to the ache in her chest. George was waiting, curled in his usual spot atop a vintage velvet armchair—a relic from the ’80s, its bold teal fabric faded from years of sun.

“Well,” she said, her voice brittle with forced cheer, “apparently, he had a very important call. Must’ve been life or death.” She tossed her clutch onto the sofa, the sarcasm crumbling as it left her lips. “Or maybe… maybe he just wasn’t real.”

She drifted into the living room, her gaze snagging on familiar objects she’d stopped truly seeing long ago: a dusty snow globe from Paris, a chipped mug that read “World’s Okayest Wife,” a framed photo of her and George—the human one—caught mid-laugh at some long-forgotten joke.

George (the cat) hopped down, landing with a soft thud, and padded over to her. He butted his head against her knee, purring—not out of pity, but something warmer. Familiar.

Pearl sat, her hand resting on George’s soft fur. The tears came quietly, not the dramatic sobs she’d imagined heartbreak should bring, but the quiet kind that sneaks out when you’ve been holding your breath for too long.

“I sent him seventy thousand dollars, you know,” she whispered, her fingers absently tracing George’s striped back. “My friends told me to video chat. Said something felt off. But he was so charming. So romantic. I just… I wanted it to be real.”

George’s purr rumbled like distant thunder, steady and grounding.

“You would’ve hated him,” she added with a small, sad laugh. “He used too many adjectives.”

Her eyes drifted to the old stereo in the corner, the kind with chunky buttons and wood paneling. She stood, shuffled over, and pressed Play on a cassette labeled “Pearl & George’s Road Trip Mix ‘84.”

The tape hissed to life, and then—“I Wanna Dance with Somebody” by Whitney Houston burst through the speakers, vibrant and defiant.

Pearl didn’t just sway this time. She stood, straightened her dress, and danced. Not the graceful moves of her youth, but the raw, unapologetic shuffle of someone reclaiming something lost. She spun in place, her arms raised above her head, her laughter mingling with the chorus.

George watched from his perch, his expression somewhere between judgmental and amused.

“You always did know when I needed you, didn’t you?” she whispered breathlessly, collapsing into the armchair, George jumping into her lap like a crown placed where it belonged.

George didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. But his eyes, those amber, knowing eyes, said everything.

And maybe that was enough.