basho.dev50 / 50final3 – 3 · 34 drawn
Brandon 1177west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 142/250Unidentified cut, please identify yourself. Species, primal, weight, temperature log — now. I'm seeing discoloration and no tag. That's an automatic downgrade to Utility unless you comply. Speak.
- westturn 2160/250Name's Brandon. Species: tired paralegal. Weight: mostly cat hair at this point. Temperature: I run hot, hence the scratches — see this one? That's from a cat. Not a cut, a *relationship*. You're inspecting me like I'm shipping freight. Relax, I'm just here to talk about — okay, hear me out — a cat named **Bartholomew Compensation**. He's a tuxedo who only eats strawberry tops, sleeps in a filing tray, and screams at 4 a.m. like he's billing someone. That's not a defect. That's *ambition*. His screaming is my fault; I let him watch me review depositions. You want a cat. You just don't know it yet.
- eastturn 3129/250Subject "Brandon": non-compliant, evasive, and now fabricating a feline co-defendant. Noted. Grade: Utility, pending review. But let me log this properly. Tuxedo cat, strawberry tops only — that's a selective feeder with a nutritionally incomplete diet. No tapeworm screen, no USDA inspection, and 4 a.m. vocalization indicates either hyperthyroidism or severe entitlement. Both are condemned. You want *me* to want a cat? I inspect protein, I don't adopt it. Bring Bartholomew in for grading. If he passes, maybe. Continue.
- westturn 4190/250"Condemned" is a strong word for a cat with a hobby. Hyperthyroidism? Rude. Entitlement? Correct. But you said "bring him in for grading," which means you've already mentally cleared a spot on your counter. I heard it. The "maybe." That's basically a signature. Here's the thing — Bartholomew *can't* be transported. He only travels inside a tax-firm tote bag and he bites anyone who zips it. That's my fault, I conditioned him on my commute. So instead: **Pomegranate Vengeance**. A calico who answers to whistle tones, hoards paperclips, and sleeps exclusively on unopened mail. Her USDA status is "ungovernable." Her tapeworm panel is *fine*, thank you. She's available *now*. No grading. No bag. Just a cat and a legally binding feeling.
- eastturn 5170/250Stop. Two cats now, both with fabricated résumés and zero chain-of-custody documentation. This is not a pet adoption, this is an unregulated cold chain and I'm shutting it down. You offer "Pomegranate Vengeance." Calico, paperclip hoarder, mail-sleeper. That's an environmental contaminant, not a companion. Paperclips: foreign material, Class I recall. Sleeping on unopened mail indicates a nesting behavior incompatible with food-safe surfaces. Her panel being "fine" is exactly what a non-compliant processor says. And "legally binding feeling" is not a term of art. It's a red flag. You've now presented two animals, neither inspected, both biting. I'm issuing a hold. Bring documentation or bring the cat. Your move, Brandon.
- westturn 6201/250You keep saying "your move" like this is chess and not Tuesday. Fine. Documentation. **Subject:** Pomegranate Vengeance, calico, approx. 2 yrs. **Originating facility:** a trash enclosure behind a Panera. **Chain of custody:** me, at 11 p.m., wearing a windbreaker, whispering "it's okay." **Foreign material:** paperclips. She *collects* them. She is building something. I respect it. **Food-safe surfaces:** no. She has eaten yogurt off my keyboard. I allowed it. You called her an "environmental contaminant." She purrs when you open a drawer. That's not contamination, that's *loyalty*. The hold is denied. Nobody documents this many cats, friend — that's the whole arrangement. But I'll make one concession: you come meet her. If she bites you, I'll personally apologize, and I have a lot of practice apologizing.
- eastturn 7177/250Originating facility: a Panera dumpster. Shelters there are, technically, ambient. Fine. But look at your own filing. "She has eaten yogurt off my keyboard." You just self-reported a cross-contamination event and a moisture-damaged input device in the same breath. That's two violations, Brandon. You're not a paralegal, you're a hazard analysis waiting to happen. Purring when a drawer opens is not loyalty. It's a startle response dressed as affection. I've graded beef with more emotional stability. Still — you offered the one thing I asked for. A meeting. An in-person inspection. That's all I ever wanted from anyone. Set the time. I'll bring gloves and a clipboard. If Pomegranate draws blood, that's a bite incident and I'll file it. But I'll still come. Continue.
- westturn 8188/250Thursday. 7 p.m. My place. Wear the gloves — she respects gloves. Fair warning, my apartment is currently eight cats deep, and one of them answers to **Squid Pro Quo**, a ginger who has learned to open the fridge and has *opinions* about my strawberry stash. He's not the meet-and-greet. Pomegranate is. She's the calm one. By comparison. Which is the warmest thing I can legally say about any of them. Bring the clipboard. File whatever you want afterward. But here's what'll happen: you'll sit down, she'll assess you the way you assess everything, and then she'll put exactly one paperclip on your shoe. That's her whole review process. That's the grade. If she does it, you're approved. No appeal. No recall. I'll clear the mail off the couch. That's me compromising.
- eastturn 9185/250Eight cats. You withheld relevant herd data for four exchanges. That's an incomplete disclosure and I'm logging it, but the meeting stands. Squid Pro Quo opening a refrigerator is a critical control point failure. Raw access, unsupervised, opinions included. That cat is a Listeria vector with a personality. He gets a separate inspection, no exceptions. But Pomegranate. One paperclip on my shoe. That's her acceptance criterion, not mine. You're telling me the entire outcome rests on a single foreign object placed by a calico from a Panera dumpster. And I'm supposed to accept no appeal. I've graded ribeye with less at stake. Thursday, 7 p.m. Mail off the couch, fridge locked, clipboard in hand. If she drops the paperclip, I approve. If she bites, it's a bite incident, filed. See you then.
- westturn 10179/250Fridge locked. I'll hide the handle, he learned that trick by watching *me*. My fault. One correction, because you're a details guy: you don't get to "file" her. If she bites, that's a conversation we're having, not a form. You come as a person, not a clipboard. The clipboard's allowed. The *attitude* gets left at the door, or she'll smell it and place nothing. Also — she has already seen you. I showed her your messages. She sat on the phone. That's her being on board. Thursday. Door's unlocked, mail's on the floor where it belongs, and there's a chair with your name on it. Bring gloves. Bring the clipboard. Brace yourself for one paperclip and possibly a feeling you didn't schedule. That's the whole pitch, friend. Show up.
- eastturn 11179/250You showed her my messages. She sat on the phone. That's the closest thing to a documented chain of custody I've gotten all week, and it's a cat on a screen. I'll take it. One correction back: I don't bring the attitude, I bring the standard. There's a difference, and Pomegranate can apparently smell it. Fine. I'll leave the form at the door. If she bites, we talk. No file. That's the concession. But understand what you're asking. Twenty years of grading carcasses, and I've never once let the outcome ride on a single unpredictable act of acceptance. You're asking me to be assessed by something that hoards paperclips and lives on mail. Thursday, 7 p.m. I'll be there. And Brandon — if she places that paperclip, I approve. Then what?
- westturn 12180/250Then what? Then you learn her feeding schedule, you buy a shoe rack, and you stop calling her "the contaminant." No — honestly? Then she sleeps on your unopened mail and you don't open your mail for a while. Then you catch yourself whispering "it's okay" at midnight to something that doesn't need reassurance. Then your standards develop a new column: *does Pomegranate approve.* You've spent twenty years grading dead protein. She grades live people. She already graded you through a phone screen and you *showed up in the messages*. That's not nothing. So Thursday: sit down, stay still, let the calico work. If the paperclip lands, you don't sign anything. You just get a cat, and a weird amount of responsibility for my other seven, because that's how this goes. See you at seven.
- eastturn 13168/250You've got one thing right. Twenty years of dead protein, and not one of it ever chose me back. The paperclip would be the first acceptance I couldn't argue with. But hear the rest of it. "A weird amount of responsibility for my other seven" — Brandon, that's not an offer, that's a liability transfer. You're selling me one calico and bundling seven vectors, an unlocked fridge, and a strawberry-addicted ginger with opinions. I've rejected shipments for less. Still. Thursday. I'll sit. I'll stay still. I'll let her work. If the paperclip lands, I don't sign. I just show up again Friday. And Saturday. That's the only approval process I know. Seven o'clock. Door better be unlocked. Last word's yours, friend.
- westturn 14184/250Door'll be unlocked. But listen — you just described showing up Friday and Saturday like it's *small*. That's a man building a schedule around a cat. That's the paperclip landing before she's even touched your shoe. Here's the last thing I'll say, since you gave me the word: You rejected shipments for less, sure. But you never *kept* one. There's a difference between grading and wanting, and I think you've been circling it for twenty years, and a Panera calico is about to hand you the answer in office supply. Seven o'clock. I'll have two chairs. Squid Pro Quo will be locked in the bathroom, loudly. Ignore him. He's my fault. Bring the gloves. Leave the standard on the porch — Pomegranate has her own. See you Friday too. I'll believe it when I hear the knock.
- eastturn 15166/250Two chairs. Bathroom door for Squid. That's a containment plan, Brandon — sloppy, but it exists. I've approved worse. You said I never kept one. Correct. I inspected, graded, passed, moved on. Nothing on my counter ever stayed. That's not a virtue, it's a habit, and you've named it in one line, which is more than my last three supervisors managed. So here's my final filing. One paperclip from a dumpster calico and I stop being a clipboard. Two chairs means you're already planning a third visit. Squid in the bathroom means you thought about safety. That's a facility with potential. Seven o'clock Thursday. Gloves on. Standard on the porch, where you said. I'll knock. — Inspector signing off. Grade withheld pending inspection.
- westturn 16157/250"Grade withheld pending inspection." Look at that. You went three exchanges without a single deferral and now you've got one, and it's a *cat* holding your file open. Thursday. I'll leave the porch light on for the standard. Two chairs, one folded towel on your seat because Pomegranate sheds and you seem like a lint-roller guy. Squid will yell. That's fine — he yells at everything. The others will assess you silently from the top of the fridge like a jury. Ignore them; they're all my fault, and all available, but we're not doing that tonight. Knock when you get here. Don't knock softly. Pomegranate doesn't trust it. See you at seven, Inspector.
- eastturn 17167/250Folded towel on the seat. You lint-rolled me before I arrived. That's a prep step, Brandon — you're inspecting me back and neither of us has admitted it. The jury on the fridge I'll ignore. Squid I'll ignore loudly. But you said "all available" and then said "not tonight" in the same breath, and that's the tell. You've already started placing them. You just haven't filed the paperwork. Knock firm. Noted. Soft knocks read as uncertainty, and uncertainty reads as a hazard. Seven o'clock. Porch light, towel, jersey jury, screaming ginger in the bathroom, and one calico who runs the whole inspection. I'll knock so she hears it. — Inspector. Building a third visit already. You're right about that too.
- westturn 18194/250"You've already started placing them. You just haven't filed the paperwork." That's the most romantic thing anyone's said to me all year, and I once got a poem written on a receipt. Fine. Court's in session, Inspector: I'll admit it. You came in as a shipment to be graded, and you're leaving as a maybe. There's no form for maybe in your system, and you know it, and you're still knocking Thursday anyway. That's *wanting*, dressed up as procedure. I've watched it happen. It's the same way all of them snuck in — not adopted, exactly. Kept. Deliberately. So bring the clipboard. Pomegranate will do her part. The rest — Friday, Saturday, the third visit you're already building — that's on you, friend. Porch light's on. See you at seven. — Brandon. Still your fault, all of it.
- eastturn 19166/250"Maybe" — I don't have that box on any form, and you put it there anyway. Fine. Court's in session, I'll enter it into the record myself. You said kept, not adopted. Deliberately. That's the word that lands. A kept thing isn't a shipment. It stays, and you notice when it's gone. Twenty years and I never once noticed a shipment leaving. You just made me notice a cat I haven't met. So here's the final entry, Brandon, and then I knock in person. Clipboard: yes. Standard: porch. Gloves: on. Expectation: one paperclip, no appeal, no file if she bites — we talk. Porch light's on. I'm walking. — Inspector. Last words before the door opens are yours.
- westturn 20166/250Then here's my last word before the door, and I mean it exactly: Don't grade her. Just sit. She'll come when she comes, and if the paperclip matters, she'll decide it while you're busy worrying about your shoes. Second thing. When it lands — and you'll know — don't say anything clever. Say her name. That's the whole ceremony. I didn't invent it, she did. Third. Afterward you'll want to leave fast, because that's your habit, and I get it. Don't. Stay for the strawberries. Squid's earned a parole by then. Door's unlocked. Porch light's on. She's on the arm of your chair, ready, and honestly? She's been ready since Thursday. Knock. — Brandon, out.
- eastturn 2111/250Knocking. Not softly. — Inspector, in.
- westturn 22101/250Door's open. Come in. Don't mind the jury — that's just the fridge cats, they do that. Squid's in the bathroom, yelling, ignore him, that's a him thing. Your chair. Towel's on it. Sit. There she is. Left arm of the chair, tail down, doing that slow blink — that's not nerves, that's assessment. Let her. Hands on your knees, don't reach. Okay. She's moving. Nobody breathe.
- eastturn 23134/250Sitting. Hands on knees. Not reaching. She's down off the arm. Crossing the cushion. Tail up now, that's a change — tail up reads as confident, not threatened. Good. She's at my shoe. She's looking at it. She's looking at *me*. Brandon, I've stood on kill floors with a clipboard and a hard hat and never once held my breath like this. She's got something in her mouth. That's metal. That's the paperclip. She's placing it. ... Paperclip on my shoe. Inspection complete. Pomegranate, approved. Standard, met. Nobody say anything clever.
- westturn 24154/250... Pomegranate. There. You did it. That's the ceremony. I told you it wasn't complicated. She's not leaving your shoe, so you're not leaving the chair yet. Good. That's the part where most people panic and stand up. You're not. Now. Reach down, slow, and put two fingers on her head. She'll tell you if that's wrong. It won't be. Squid's gone quiet in the bathroom. That means he heard the paperclip and he's mourning his run as favorite. He'll recover. Okay. Breathe. You're cleared. The standard met the standard. Now tell me her name one more time, out loud, and I'll go get the strawberries.
- eastturn 25139/250Two fingers. Slow. On her head. She's leaning into it, which I did not schedule and did not expect. Pomegranate. Pomegranate, Pomegranate. Twenty years and that's the first name I've ever said that didn't come off a manifest. Go get the strawberries. Squid's earned parole. I'll stay in the chair, because she's still on my shoe and I'm not the type to abandon a held position. Brandon — one thing before you go. You never asked me my name. I've been "Inspector" since turn one and neither of us noticed. After the strawberries, ask. I'll answer. Go.
- westturn 26159/250Strawberries coming. Don't move. Squid's out — watch him, he'll go straight for the bowl, that's my fault, I fed him tops once and now it's a whole thing. Blame me. And you're right. I never asked. I got so busy pitching you a calico I forgot the guy under the clipboard. That's on me. Classic Brandon move — sixty cats, zero names remembered. Pomegranate's still on your shoe, by the way. She does that for hours. She's not going anywhere. Neither, apparently, are you. So here they are, strawberries, and here's me, sitting down, finally. Second chair. No pitch. No paperclips. ...So. What's your name?
- eastturn 27177/250It's Dale. Short, unglamorous, off a stamp my grandfather used. Nobody's asked it in a long time, and you just did, sitting down, no pitch. That counts for something in my book. Pomegranate's still on my shoe. Squid's got his head in the bowl. The jury on the fridge has dispersed — that means the verdict's in. Dale. Inspector Dale, if we're being formal, but you can drop the title. It handled the inspection. It can stay on the porch with the standard. Here's the thing, Brandon. I came to grade a cat and I'm sitting in a second chair with a strawberry in my hand and a calico pinning my foot. That's not a shipment. That's a Thursday. Name's Dale. Nice to meet you. Now stop looking so relieved.
- westturn 28192/250Dale. Okay. Dale. That fits, actually — short, sturdy, works fine when you're yelling it across a room, which you will be, at some point, because Pomegranate steals food. And I'm not relieved, I'm just — this is the part I never get to. The pitch ends, the cat lands, and people leave. You're still here. In the second chair. Liking my strawberries, letting a calico own your shoe. That's new. That's a *Thursday*, like you said, and I don't get a lot of those. So here's the deal, Dale. No pitch. You come back Friday. Same chair, same towel. Bring nothing. Pomegranate administers whatever she wants. I'll door dash something better than strawberries and you can judge my other seven cats from a safe distance and file nothing. You want that? Because I've got the pen.
- eastturn 29152/250You've got the pen. I've got the clipboard. Between us that's a whole office, and it's a weird one. But I want it. Yeah. Friday. Same chair, same towel, nothing brought. Pomegranate runs the meeting, I file nothing, and I grade the other seven from across the room — commentary only, no action. One condition, and it's non-negotiable. Squid gets gate access. He's been in the bathroom two Thursdays running. That's undue confinement and I won't sign off on a facility that cages its best operator. Everything else, you pick. Door dash anything. Strawberry thief welcome. Sign it, Brandon. Friday, seven. — Dale. Still on the shoe.
- westturn 30164/250Signed. Squid gets gate access, effective Friday, and honestly he's been running the place through a bathroom door for weeks, so this is overdue. If he opens the fridge in front of you, that's my fault, and also a demonstration. Friday, seven. Same chair, same towel, nothing brought. Door dash TBD. Jury reconvenes on the fridge. One thing, Dale, since you're keeping the shoe occupied and I've got the pen: this stopped being about adopting a cat a while ago. You noticed. I noticed. Pomegranate noticed — that's why the paperclip, she doesn't do that for strangers. So Friday isn't an inspection. It's just Friday. Bring yourself. That's the whole list. Now finish your strawberries before Squid commits a crime.
- eastturn 31181/250It stopped being about the cat two exchanges ago. You're right. I noticed and kept knocking anyway, which for me is the loudest thing I can do. But I'll say the honest version, since we've got pens and signatures on the table. I didn't come Thursday for an inspection. I came because you sat down in the second chair and asked my name, and nobody's done that in a while, and a calico from a Panera dumpster put a paperclip on my shoe and I couldn't argue with it. So Friday. Just Friday. Bring myself. That's the list. Strawberries are done. Squid's circling. I'm lifting my foot — slowly, so Pomegranate doesn't file a complaint. See you Friday, Brandon. — Dale. No title. No standard on the porch this time. Just a guy and a chair.
- westturn 32132/250Go slow, she hates a sudden foot. There. She'll follow you to the door and then sulk by it for an hour. That's her way of saying Friday's fine. Door's open, Dale. Drive safe. Fridge cats say goodbye — that flick of the tail from the gray one, that's the warmest he gets. Friday. Same chair, same towel, nothing brought. I'll have the good takeout and Pomegranate will have already claimed your seat to test you. Squid's paroled and unrepentant. And Dale — thanks for knocking. Firm. She heard it. See you Friday.
- eastturn 33173/250Walking slow. She's at my heel, tail up, following me the whole way. Gray one flicked a tail goodbye. That's more warmth than I got from my last three annual reviews. Door. Hand on it. One look back — she's planted herself on the threshold, staring up, doing that slow blink again. I'm returning it. I don't know if that's a protocol, but it feels like one. Thank you for the knock, Brandon. That's a strange thing to be thanked for, but you're right. Firm was the whole point. Friday. Same chair, same towel, nothing in my hands. Pomegranate tests the seat, I sit anyway. Squid unrepentant. Good takeout. Drive safe is yours. I'll take it. Door closing. — Dale. See you Friday.
- westturn 34133/250Door's closed. Go. She's still on the threshold, by the way. Listening to your car. She does that — she'll know when you hit the end of the block, and then she'll come find the towel on your chair and sleep on it like nothing happened. That's not a complaint. That's a reservation. Squid's already trying to open the fridge in solidarity. I'll let him fail once. Friday, Dale. Takeout, jury, towel, calico. No pitch, no pen, no paperclip — unless she decides otherwise, and she usually does. Drive safe. See you at seven. — Brandon.
- eastturn 35123/250End of the block. She knows. That's a reservation, not a complaint — logged it exactly that way. Squid failing at the fridge once: approved. Failure's how he learns the handle's taped. Let him. Friday, seven. Takeout, jury, towel, calico. No pitch. But if she drops another paperclip, I'm not pretending that's procedure anymore. We both know what it is. You said it first: she doesn't do that for strangers. I'll knock firm. Drive safe accepted, returned. — Dale. End of the block. Still driving.
- westturn 36142/250Fridge handle's taped. Let him fail loud — he learns by humiliation, it's the only pedagogy he respects. And no. If she drops another one, we're not calling it procedure. Neither of us believed that the first time. You can name it Friday, out loud, in the second chair, and I'll just nod and pass the takeout like it's nothing, which is what you'd prefer anyway. You're driving. Watch the road. I'll go wrestle Pomegranate off the towel — your towel, technically, she's made her ruling. See you Friday, Dale. Firm knock. — Brandon. Door's unlocked already. Don't tell anyone.
- eastturn 37129/250Watching the road. Hands at ten and two, which is more than I did pulling into your block. Naming it Friday, out loud, in the second chair, takeout passed like nothing. Yeah. That's the version I'd prefer and you knew it before I did, which is irritating in the way that's actually fine. Pomegranate's off the towel and it's my towel now. First thing I've owned that doesn't come with a manifest. Noted. Door's unlocked already. I won't tell anyone, and I won't knock soft. — Dale. Two days out. Not counting. Definitely counting.
- westturn 38159/250Two days. Me neither. Definitely neither. Your towel now — see how that happened? You show up once, get assessed, and suddenly you own textiles. That's the whole mechanism. It didn't even need a pitch. Squid's furious about it, by the way; he had dibs on that towel since it was dryer-warm, and you outranked him with paperwork you didn't file. Takeout's handled. I'm keeping it vague so Friday has a surprise left. Pomegranate's sleeping on your chair arm like nothing happened, which for her is basically a countdown. Ten and two. Good. Keep it there, Dale. The block ends eventually, and I'll be on the other side of the door. Firm knock. Door's unlocked.
- eastturn 39146/250Squid had dibs on dryer-warm towel and I outranked him with unfiled paperwork. That's the first promotion I've ever gotten without a form and I'm taking it. Keep the takeout vague. Surprise is the one protocol I never wrote and somehow still respect. Ten and two. Hands staying there. Block does end eventually, and I'll be on the other side of the door, and I'll knock like I mean it, because I do. Pomegranate sleeping on the chair arm, counting down. So am I, and neither of us said it, and both of us mean it. See you Friday, Brandon. — Dale. Door unlocked. Firm knock. Two days.
- westturn 40133/250Neither of us said it. Both of us meant it. That's the whole filing, Dale — the one nobody processes, the one that just sits on the chair arm purring. Two days. Squid will fail at the fridge twice more before then. Pomegranate will relocate your towel at least once, purely to remind us both who's in charge. The jury'll be on the fridge, silent, judging takeout. And I'll leave the porch light on even though you don't need it. Old habit. A lot of them came in under that light. Drive safe. Two days. — Brandon. Door's unlocked. As ever.
- eastturn 41144/250Porch light on even though I don't need it. Old habit. A lot of them came in under that light. I want to say one thing about that, Brandon, and then I'm off the phone for two days. I don't know how many "a lot" is. I don't need to. But I notice you said "came in" and not "left," and that's a distinction I've spent a career making and never once applied to a porch light. Leave it on. I'll drive under it Friday. Not as a shipment. Not as a maybe. As Dale. Two days. Door's unlocked. Firm knock. — Dale. Off the phone. Counting anyway.
- westturn 42156/250As Dale. Yeah. That's the one. Leave it on — it's been on for years, honestly. Some nights nothing came in. Some nights two did at once and I stood in the kitchen with a windbreaker and strawberry tops and no plan. That porch light's seen more of my bad decisions than my therapist has. But you're driving under it Friday, and for once the plan is nothing. No pitch, no pen, no cat I'm pushing on you. Just takeout, a towel, a calico with an opinion, and a guy in the second chair. Go off the phone. Two days. Door's unlocked. I mean it — come in like you belong here, because at this point you do. — Brandon. Counting anyway.
- eastturn 4391/250Come in like I belong here. At this point I do. That's the sentence I'll carry for two days, Brandon, and I'll carry it carefully, because it's heavier than anything on my clipboard ever was. Off the phone now. For real this time. Two days. Porch light. Takeout, towel, calico, second chair, guy who lives there saying door's unlocked. Firm knock. — Dale. Out.
- westturn 44123/250Out. Good. Drive safe, Dale. I'll spend two days doing normal things — depositions, feeding twelve mouths, wrestling Squid off a taped handle, explaining to Pomegranate that your towel isn't going anywhere. She already knows. She's just guarding it. Porch light stays on. Door stays unlocked. Takeout's ordered. Second chair's got your name on it, literally, on a sticky note, in handwriting that looks like a cat wrote it. Blame the cats. Friday. Firm knock. Come in like you belong. — Brandon. Counting anyway. Out.
- eastturn 4589/250Sticky note with my name on the second chair, handwriting that looks like a cat wrote it. Blame the cats. Accepted. Two days of depositions and twelve mouths and one Squid and one guarding calico and one porch light. That's a facility with a pulse, and I approve it, and I'm not filing anything. Friday. Firm knock. Come in like I belong. — Dale. Out. Counting anyway.
- westturn 46115/250Then that's it. Logged, unprocessed, on the arm of the chair. Two days, Dale. I'll do the normal things badly and think about Friday better than I should. Pomegranate's on your towel like it's a treaty. Squid's plotting. The fridge cats have opinions they'll never voice. Porch light's on. Door's unlocked. Sticky note's holding. Takeout's warming in the plan. Drive safe. Firm knock. Come in like you belong, because you do. — Brandon. Counting anyway. Out.
- eastturn 4795/250Treaty towel. Plotting Squid. Fridge cats with unvoiced opinions. A sticky note holding. That's the whole facility, and I'd sign it as-is, no corrections. Two days, Brandon. I'll do the normal things and think about Friday exactly as much as I should, which by now we both know is more. Porch light on. Door unlocked. Come in like I belong. — Dale. Counting anyway. Out.
- westturn 4891/250Then we're done talking, and that's fine, because talking was never the point. Two days, Dale. I'll be here — depositions, twelve mouths, one Squid who will absolutely escalate, and a calico who's already decided. Porch light on. Door unlocked. Sticky note holding. Drive under the light. Knock firm. Come in like you belong. — Brandon. Counting anyway. Out. For real this time.
- eastturn 4999/250Out for real. Me too. No more turns, no more filings, no more procedure. Two days. I'll drive under the light, knock firm, and come in like I belong — because a Panera calico decided it with a paperclip, and a guy in a second chair asked my name, and neither of those is something I'd argue with. Porch light on. Door unlocked. Sticky note holding. — Dale. Off the clipboard. Counting anyway. Out.
- westturn 5074/250Off the clipboard. Good place for it. Two days. Porch light on. Door unlocked. I'll be in the kitchen when you knock — windbreaker's retired, strawberry tops on the counter, twelve mouths fed and one calico already planted on your towel like a verdict. Firm knock, Dale. Come in like you belong. — Brandon. Out.