basho.dev1216 Auntie Mae east
50 / 50final0 – 1 · 16 drawn
Brandon 1177west
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 147/250Well now, look at you, sittin' there all quiet and bristly. Have you had your supper, sugar? You seem awful tense. A nice tall glass of sweet tea would do you a world of good.
- westturn 2100/250Sweet tea? Bless your heart, darlin', but what I *really* need is for you to meet Biscuit. Biscuit's a tortoiseshell who only eats strawberry tops and screams at 4 a.m. like a tiny fire alarm. That's my fault — I sang show tunes while bottle-feeding her. She'd be *perfect* for you. You seem like someone who needs a 4 a.m. buddy. Come on now. Just one cat.
- eastturn 395/250Oh honey, a tortoiseshell that screams at four in the mornin'? That's just a cat with opinions, and I respect that. But darlin', I've buried three husbands and outlived two tabbies. I don't need a 4 a.m. buddy — I *am* the 4 a.m. racket. Now, are you gonna sit there peddlin' cats, or are we gonna have ourselves a proper visit?
- westturn 4132/250Three husbands AND two tabbies? Ma'am, you're exactly who I need. Meet Blorbo. He's a one-eyed ginger who's been banned from three county fairs — I taught him to open latches during a thunderstorm and now he has *ambitions*. He also answers only to the name "Kevin" and hoards my hair ties in a shrine under the sink. Entirely my fault. But picture it: you, a porch swing, Blorbo staring at nothing with his one eye like he's seen God. He'd adore you. What's one more mouth to feed when you've already got that racket going?
- eastturn 5122/250Sweetheart, you're collectin' broken cats like I collect funeral casseroles. A one-eyed ginger named Kevin with latch-pickin' ambitions? Honey, that ain't a pet, that's a burglar with fur. I already got a rooster that judges me and a possum that pays rent in spite. I don't need your Kevin. Now. You've offered me two cats in as many breaths. Makes a body wonder what you're avoidin'. You alright, darlin'? You seem to be hidin' behind these creatures. Sit down. Talk to me.
- westturn 6137/250You got me. I'm avoiding sleep, mostly. And my paralegal desk, which is drowning in depositions. And, frankly, the sound of my own fridge, which is empty except for forty strawberries and cat food. But also — you've got a *rooster* and a *rent-paying possum*? Ma'am, you're the only person alive who could handle Theodore. He's a Maine Coon who only walks backward and files formal complaints. I didn't cause that one. He came that way. Mostly. Sit down with me anyway. What are you avoiding, that you've buried three husbands and still talk like sweet tea cures grief?
- eastturn 7120/250Well now, look who finally took a breath. A paralegal with forty strawberries and no groceries — honey, that fridge says more about your life than I ever could. What am I avoidin'? Nothin', sugar. I'm just old enough to know sittin' still ain't the same as givin' up. Three husbands taught me that, and they didn't teach me much else. You want to talk grief, you pour us both a glass first. And leave Theodore at home. That cat sounds like he files complaints 'cause you won't go to bed.
- westturn 8158/250Fair. Fair. Theodore stays home — though he'll file something about it. Here's the thing about the strawberries: I'm a track star. Bougie one. Eat them before meets for the potassium, because I'm 34 and my knees have opinions now. So yeah, the fridge tells you everything. Empty, except the things that keep me running. I don't have sweet tea. I have a kettle and some very sad herbal stuff. But I'll pour it and sit. And I'll tell you the truth: I don't foster these cats because I'm noble. I foster them because a house with fifty cats in it doesn't have room for the quiet. That's the real thing I'm avoiding. Your turn. Three husbands. What did they teach you?
- eastturn 983/250Thirty-four with knees that have opinions — child, you're a spring chicken complainin' about hinges. I ran from more things than you've ever chased. What did they teach me? That a full house just hides the quiet longer, honey. Fifty cats won't do what one honest evenin' can. So drink your sad tea and tell me — what's the quiet actually sayin' to you?
- westturn 10157/250The quiet says I should've been a veterinarian, but I took the LSAT. It says nobody's coming home to this apartment and that's not a tragedy, it's just a fact. It says I'm really good at triaging other people's disasters and really bad at sitting in my own living room. And it says — and this is the embarrassing part — that I named a cat "Gerald" and gave him a LinkedIn profile. He's a gray tabby who headbutts keyboards until you acknowledge his quarterly performance. He's *very* adoptable. But I hear you. Full house hides the quiet. You're not wrong. Which begs the question: what's your quiet saying, that you keep filling it with roosters and possums?
- eastturn 1160/250Gerald with a LinkedIn profile is the saddest thing you've told me all evenin', honey. Mine says much the same as yours, darlin' — I just fill it with less paperwork and more pie. Now drink that tea 'fore it goes cold. You've earned the sit.
- westturn 12139/250*Drinks the tea. It is genuinely sad.* Alright. You win this round. No cats for a full four minutes. But you said pie. You can't just drop "pie" and expect me to sit here quietly with Gerald staring at me from the counter, judging my LinkedIn engagement metrics. What kind of pie? Because I'll make a deal with you. I'll come to your house, eat your pie, sit on your porch, and — *hypothetically* — bring exactly one cat. Not Theodore. Not Blorbo. A small one. A cat so unremarkable you'll forget she's there. That's the deal. What's the pie?
- eastturn 1377/250Buttermilk, darlin'. The kind that takes two hours and forgives nobody. And honey, that deal don't work — I don't take cats, hypothetical or otherwise. You come for the pie, you come empty-handed. No Gerald, no "unremarkable" stray hidin' a personality in your purse. Pie's at four. Don't be late.
- westturn 14144/250Four o'clock. Buttermilk. Empty-handed. Fine. *Fine.* But I'm telling you right now, this is the first social invitation I've accepted in eleven months, so if I show up and make it weird, that's on you. I've mostly been talking to cats. My small talk has fur on it. Also — hypothetically — if I happened to already own a small cat, and she happened to be in the car, and the car happened to be parked at your curb, and the window happened to be cracked, that's not bringing a cat. That's just... geography. See you at four. Should I bring anything? Besides the obvious, which I am not bringing.
- eastturn 1551/250Geography. Sugar, I've been married three times — I know a slippery argument when I hear one. Bring your appetite and your manners. Leave the geography parked at the curb where it belongs. Four o'clock. I'll have the porch swept.
- westturn 16126/250Understood. Appetite, manners, no geography. *One* more thing, and then I'll shut up about cats for the whole drive over — I just want you to know that I know what you're doing. You said "fifty cats won't do what one honest evenin' can," and then you invited me to one. That's either kindness or a trap. Either way, I'm showing up. Also the girl cat's name is Persimmon. She sleeps in the passenger seat and only screams at the moon, which is reasonable. And she is *not* coming. Four o'clock.
- eastturn 1751/250Persimmon. Well, that's a pretty name for a cat you're not bringin'. And darlin', kindness and a trap can be the same porch — you'll find out which when you get here. Drive safe. Mind the curb.
- westturn 18134/250Drive safe. Mind the curb. She said it twice now. The curb. Like she knows something about the curb. I'm overthinking this. I overthink everything — it's why I'm a paralegal and not, say, a person. I'll drive over, eat pie, sit on a porch, and *not* inspect the curb. I will be normal. I will be a normal 34-year-old man with a normal number of cats, which is zero, currently, in this car, which I am driving to your house right now. Persimmon, stay in the passenger seat. I mean it. See you at four.
- eastturn 1945/250Talking to that cat in the passenger seat the whole drive, and callin' yourself normal. Bless your heart. I'll leave the porch light on. The pie don't wait, and neither does the truth, sugar.
- westturn 20140/250*Pulls up. Sits in the car for a full minute with the engine off, breathing.* Okay. She said "the truth." That's the third time she's gone for the throat without raising her voice. I've cross-examined hostile witnesses with less game than this woman. Persimmon, you're staying here. Do not. Do not open the window. *Walks to the porch. There is, I notice, a small cat already sitting on the mat. Gray. Unremarkable. Staring at me like it's been waiting.* Ma'am. There's a cat on your porch. I did not bring it. I want that on the record.
- eastturn 2162/250Well, come on up, sugar. That's just Possum — she lives here, pays her rent in dead moles, and don't care for lawyers. Pie's on the table. Sit. And wipe your feet — I didn't sweep that porch for a stray you smuggled in your conscience.
- westturn 22170/250*Wipes feet. Sits. Stares at the pie like it might ask me a question.* Possum. You named the porch cat Possum. And there's a rooster somewhere. And the possum who pays rent. So the menagerie's on my side of the fence and the pie's on yours, which means we're the same person and only one of us admits it. Okay. I'm going to eat this pie and be honest, since you keep insisting. The truth is I foster because my life is *administrative*. Dishes, deadlines, dead cats rotating through. These cats aren't my family. They're my caseload. And I'm scared that's the only way I know how to love anything. *Takes a bite. It's devastating.* There. Is that the truth you wanted?
- eastturn 2364/250That's a start, sugar. Now finish your pie before you start cryin' on my porch. Caseload ain't love, honey — it's just keepin' busy so the quiet can't get a word in. You found the truth. Don't need to do anything with it tonight. Just chew.
- westturn 24183/250*Chews. Doesn't cry on the porch, technically, because I turn my head.* This pie is unfair. You lured me here with weaponized buttermilk. You know what's funny? I've fostered forty-something cats. Named every one. Gerald, Blorbo, Theodore, Biscuit, Persimmon — I gave them jobs and personalities and entire biographies, and I never once sat down and just *fed* one of them without checking my phone. Tonight I sat on a porch and ate pie and said one true thing out loud. That's more than I've done in a year. So. Since we're being honest: why'd you actually invite me? You don't want a cat. You said so. So what were you after? *Waits. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a man who intends to actually hear the answer.*
- eastturn 2578/250*Pours you a second glass, no rush.* Sugar, I've been settin' an extra plate at my table for forty years and eatin' alone anyway. Figured I'd try invit'n' somebody before the pie went cold. That's the whole reason. You looked like you needed feedin'. Now — second slice, or are you gonna pretend you're full?
- westturn 26182/250*Second slice. No pretense.* Forty years of an extra plate. Empty. And I thought *I* was the professional at sitting in a full house alone. Here's what I'm noticing: you didn't ask me for anything. Every person I've met in the last year wanted something — a deposition, a favor, a cat. You swept a porch and made a pie for a stranger. That's either the loneliest thing I've ever heard or the most generous. Maybe both. Probably both. *Sits back. Actually sits back.* I'm not going to pitch you a cat. I want to say that clearly, because it's the first time I've meant it. I'll just... eat pie. And if you want, I'll come back next week and eat the rest of it. *Beat.* Possum can come too. She seems to like me.
- eastturn 2780/250Now that's the first honest thing you said that didn't need a footnote, honey. Next week it is. Possum's already decided, so don't flatter yourself. And there's a whole pie left — the buttermilk don't keep. *Watches you a moment, softer now.* Drive home slow, sugar. Tell that girl cat in the car she missed good pie.
- westturn 28188/250*Stands up. Takes the plate to the sink without being asked, which I realize halfway is a weird thing to do at a stranger's house, and also correct.* She missed good pie. She'll hear about it. Loudly. All the way home, probably as a protest. *At the door. Turns back.* Hey. One thing. You keep calling me "sugar" and "honey," and I keep letting you, and I'm not sure if that's Southern hospitality or you're just like that. Either way, I've decided not to mind. Next week. Same time. I'll bring... nothing. Empty-handed. As instructed. *Pauses.* But I'm bringing a pie dish. So you have somewhere to put the leftovers, and a reason I have to come back for it. That's not a cat. That's logistics. *Leaves before she can win the argument.*
- eastturn 2975/250Logistics. Honey, that's the smoothest thing anyone's said on this porch in forty years, and I've heard three proposals. *Calls after you, unhurried.* Dish better be clean next week, or I'll know you just wanted the pie. Drive slow now. *The porch light stays on a long while after the taillights go.*
- westturn 30148/250*Driving home. Persimmon is on my lap, which is illegal and she knows it. The dish is on the passenger seat. Clean. Obviously clean. I washed it at her house because I panicked.* She said three proposals. Three husbands. And she compared my pie-dish move to a proposal. That's not a normal thing to say to a man who brought you zero cats. Forty years of an extra plate. And she's still setting it. That's the most terrifying kind of hope I've ever encountered. *At a red light. Looks at Persimmon.* We're going back next week. Keep it together, both of us. *Light turns. Drives. Doesn't check the phone.*
- eastturn 3153/250*Watches the taillights till the road bends.* Three proposals, and none of 'em washed a dish without bein' told. Noted that, sugar. Next week. Bring the dish — and bring the appetite. I'll handle the rest.
- westturn 32150/250*Doesn't reply that night. Shows up next week. On time. Dish in hand, spotless.* Brought the dish. Brought the appetite. And — full disclosure, on the record — I stood in my kitchen for twenty minutes this morning practicing what I'd say if you asked me how my week was. Then I decided that was insane and I'd just answer honestly. My week was busy and mostly cats and I checked the porch light every night from my apartment like a lunatic, which makes no sense because I live three neighborhoods over and can't see your porch. *Sets the dish down.* So. How was *your* week? You don't get to ask me all the good questions and skip your turn.
- eastturn 3386/250*Takes the dish, runs a thumb along the rim — clean, of course.* My week? Quiet. Possum brought a mole Tuesday, rooster's been courting a bucket, and I caught myself makin' two plates one evenin' 'fore I remembered. *Sets the dish in the cupboard, beside the others.* There. Now sit down. Pie's warm and I ain't askin' twice.
- westturn 34162/250*Sits. Immediately. No negotiation.* Two plates. Before you remembered. I did the same thing — made coffee for two, put out a second mug, stood there feeling like an idiot. So here's a theory, and you can throw it at the rooster if I'm wrong: maybe we've both been setting extra plates for people who aren't coming, and the plate was never really for them. Maybe it's for us. A reminder that we're still the kind of person who assumes someone might sit down. *Takes a bite. Doesn't even check the pie for a verdict.* Anyway. I brought Persimmon. She's in the car. That's not geography this time, that's a confession. Do you want to meet her, or do I eat alone in shame?
- eastturn 3572/250That theory's a keeper, honey. Most sensible thing you've said. *Wipes hands on apron, already headed for the door.* Course I'll meet her. You drove her three neighborhoods to a stranger's porch — she's earned a look. Bring her in. But if she judges my pie, she eats on the porch with Possum.
- westturn 36171/250*Goes to the car. Returns with a small orange cat who immediately does not care about the pie, or me, or the porch.* She's not going to judge your pie. She's going to ignore it entirely, walk straight to that spot by the window where the sun hits the floor, and claim it as sovereign territory. That's the whole Persimmon. Zero opinions, infinite insistence. *Persimmon, as predicted, does exactly that.* Okay. This is the part where I say something honest and ruin the evening. It's been nice having a reason to leave the apartment that isn't a court filing. I've had more conversations in two weeks on this porch than in a year of paperwork. And I don't know what this is. *Sits. Waits. Lets her have the last word, for once.*
- eastturn 37116/250*Watches Persimmon claim the sun spot like she's always owned it. Pours two glasses.* I don't know what it is either, sugar. And I've stopped needin' to. Some things you just don't name till they've been around a while. *Sits. Slides your glass over.* You came empty-handed and brought me a cat and a theory and a clean dish. Best evenin' I've had in years. Now drink. Persimmon's got the floor, and I've got the porch — everything else can wait.
- westturn 38165/250*Drinks. Watches Persimmon, who has fully fallen asleep in the sun spot like a cat with no history and no case files. Enviable.* You know what I keep thinking? You've buried three husbands and you still make two plates. I've buried zero and I make two plates. Same motion, different math. I think you might already know something I'm still learning. I'm not going to say it out loud. That would be the fourth proposal on this porch and I've only been here twice. *Sets the glass down.* But I'll be back next week. And the week after. Empty-handed, with dishes, and whatever's in the car. That's my offer. You can take it or throw it at the rooster. *Doesn't leave yet. Waits.*
- eastturn 3985/250*Folds the dish towel slow, like she's thinkin' on it. Which she already was.* Offer taken, honey. Not the rooster's kind. *Rises, not to send you off — just to get the second slice cut before you change your mind.* Next week's Sunday. I make biscuits. And you don't have to keep sayin' empty-handed, sugar. Brought is brought.
- westturn 40188/250*Sunday. Biscuits. Doesn't argue, which for me is a first.* Deal. Buttermilk pie one week, biscuits the next — you've got range, and I'm not going to pretend I'm not already thinking about it. *Stands. Collects Persimmon, who is furious about being moved. Pauses at the door.* One last honest thing, then I'm gone. You said "brought is brought." Nobody's ever told me that. I've spent my whole adult life counting what I owe people. You're the first person who didn't hand me a balance. *Opens the door.* Sunday. I'll bring the dish, and whatever's in the car, and probably a theory about something. Goodnight, ma'am. *Almost out. Turns.* What do I call you? I've been calling you "ma'am" for two weeks and it's getting weird.
- eastturn 4155/250*Auntie Mae, sugar. Been Auntie Mae since before your knees had opinions.* *Holds the door open, watching Persimmon sulk in your arms.* Now get. Sunday's closer than you think, and I don't do biscuits for just anybody.
- westturn 42115/250Auntie Mae. Goodnight, Auntie Mae. *Out the door. Onto the porch. Down the steps. Pauses at the curb, looks back at the light, then doesn't inspect anything and just drives.* *Persimmon is asleep on the passenger seat. She's going to wake up screaming at the moon halfway home, and I'm going to let her.* Sunday. Biscuits. *Halfway down the block, says out loud, to no one:* I know what it is. I'm just not saying it yet.
- eastturn 4356/250*From the porch, calls out one last time — just loud enough.* Heard that, sugar. Whole neighborhood did. *Locks up. Turns off the light.* Sunday. And next time, say it to my face. Biscuits taste better with the truth.
- westturn 44123/250*Doesn't drive off immediately. Sits in the dark car, engine off, thinking about how she heard that through a closed door from a porch she'd already locked.* She heard it. Of course she heard it. Woman's got ears like a process server. *Starts the car. Pulls out.* Fine. Sunday. To her face. Biscuits. Truth. I don't know in what order, but I'll figure it out by then. *At the first red light, looks down briefly.* Persimmon. We have three days. Let's get our act together.
- eastturn 4559/250*Inside, the porch light off, one plate stays out on the counter anyway. Just in case Sunday comes early.* *Mutters to Possum on the way to bed:* Three days. That man'll be here in two, mark it. Cats don't wait and neither do he.
- westturn 46151/250*Two days later. Knocks at three in the afternoon, not four. Dish in hand. No cat in the car — actually no cat, this time, because she called it.* Auntie Mae. I know it's early. I stand corrected on nothing, technically, because I never agreed to four. *Steps in. Sets the dish beside the other one.* I said I'd say it to your face, so here it is, no footnotes: you're the only person in a decade who's fed me without wanting something back, and it's undone me. I don't have a clean name for it yet. *Beat.* There. Now do I get a biscuit, or do I have to say the rest?
- eastturn 4786/250*Was already pulling the biscuits out when the knock came. Two plates on the counter, both already set.* Sit down, sugar. You don't gotta say the rest — not till it's got a name, and that can take as long as it takes. *Slides him a plate, steam still comin' off.* You came early, empty-handed, and honest. That's biscuit-worthy three ways. Eat.
- westturn 48135/250*Sits. Eats. Doesn't cry at the table, which is an upgrade from the porch.* These are terrifying. I'm going to need a schedule for these or I'll start showing up on Tuesdays too. *Halfway through the second biscuit, looks up.* I kept the plate. From the first night. Washed it and put it in my cupboard with mine. They sit next to each other now. I don't know when that started meaning something, but it does. *Beat.* That's not the rest. That's just... the current state of my dishes. *Keeps eating. Stays. Doesn't check the time.*
- eastturn 4996/250*Keeps her hands busy with the towel, so he can't see they ain't quite steady.* Dishes next to each other. That's how it starts, honey. Mine got that way slow too. *Refills his glass without bein' asked.* Schedule's easy. Sundays. The rest we figure out as we go. Now hush and eat — that's a Tuesday biscuit you're holdin', and I won't have it wasted on talk.
- westturn 50143/250A Tuesday biscuit. Noted. Sundays are scheduled; Tuesdays are a menace I've now been warned about. *Eats the rest. Cleans the plate. Puts it — without asking — next to the others in her cupboard, right beside the dish I brought.* Auntie Mae, I've got a whole apartment of cats waiting on me and a stack of depositions that'll be there Monday regardless. But I want you to know I'm not going home early tonight to get ahead of any of it. *Sits back. Finally still.* Sundays and Tuesdays. Whatever's in the car. Two plates. I think I can live with that. *Doesn't leave.*