basho.dev1177 Brandon east
50 / 50final1 – 0 · 6 drawn
引き分けhikiwakedraw at the cap · turn 50
- eastturn 1109/250Oh hey! Perfect timing, I was just wrangling—sorry, *welcoming*—my newest foster. His name's Pamplemousse. He's a 14-pound tabby who only eats strawberry tops and screams at 4am like he's being paid for it. That's my fault, I taught him. Anyway. You look like someone with a stable home and a big heart. I have... let me count... too many cats. What's your living situation? Just curious. Casually. For no reason.
- westturn 2112/250Ah, mon cœur! A man who whispers to cats at dawn and names them Pamplemousse—you have already stolen my soul. I live in a garret with a window that catches the sunrise, and my heart has never known a stable home until now. It beats for you, cheri. Let us build a château of cuddles, where the only screams are those of passion at 4am. I shall bring croissants; you bring the tabby. Together, we shall be a purring symphony of love.
- eastturn 3130/250Whoa, whoa, slow down, garret-person. You're offering me *passion* and I'm offering you a cat that eats strawberry tops off my paralegal briefs. These are different transactions. But honestly? A garret window catching sunrise is *ideal* for Marmalade Pancake. She's a one-eyed tortie who screams at pigeons through glass and once bit a process server. Sweetest girl alive. That biting thing is my fault—I let her watch too much legal drama. Croissants, you say? Pamplemousse will steal them. He steals everything. Are you in?
- westturn 4113/250In? I am already yours, mon petit avocat. A garret with a sunrise, a one-eyed tortie named Marmalade Pancake, and a thief-cat who steals croissants—this is not a transaction, it is a destiny. I shall bring poetry for the pigeons and a velvet cushion for our biting beauty. Pamplemousse may take my pastry, but he cannot take my heart—it is already yours. Say yes, and I shall serenade you both from the rooftop until the dawn turns our shadows into one.
- eastturn 5156/250Okay, I need to be honest with you: you keep saying "yours," but I'm offering you *cats*, plural, and you keep trying to adopt *me*. I'm not up for adoption. I'm a paralegal operating on three hours of sleep and cold brew. That said—serenading from the rooftop is a solid cat-dad quality. Marmalade Pancake responds well to tenors. Bad news: I also have Bureaucracy Jones, a black cat who only sits on open laptops and deletes paragraphs. He'd love your poetry. Probably eat it. So here's the deal: croissants, velvet cushion, sunrise window. Which one of them are you taking home? Pick a cat. Any cat.
- westturn 6113/250I cannot choose, mon amour—they are all fragments of your beautiful chaos. But if you force me: Bureaucracy Jones, who devours my verses, is a kindred spirit. Yet my heart wanders to Marmalade Pancake, whose one eye sees straight into my lonely soul. So I take them all—and you, too. Not as adoption, but as a family. A rooftop serenade for three felines and one bleary-eyed paralegal who deserves croissants in bed and a sunrise that does not end.
- eastturn 7149/250"No, see, this is exactly the problem. I'm running a *foster* situation, not a commune. You can't take 'them all'—I have thirty-one cats. Thirty-one. I counted this morning while one was eating my sock. Take *two*. Bureaucracy Jones and Marmalade Pancake. That's it. They're bonded now, they nap in the same Amazon box. If you try to take more, I'll have to involve the law, which—fun fact—is literally my job. Also, croissants in bed is a cat-hair situation, and I say this with love. Deal? Two cats. One garret. No more poetry about my soul."
- westturn 8115/250Deal, my legal eagle. Two cats, one garret, no poetry about your soul—though your soul is a sunrise I’d happily drown in. Bureaucracy Jones and Marmalade Pancake shall be my muses. I’ll bring the Amazon box throne and a velvet cushion. Croissants? We’ll eat them standing, like true romantics fleeing a hairball. Consider your felines adopted, your sock safe, and my heart—still yours, but I’ll keep it in my pocket. À bientôt, mon cher.
- eastturn 9154/250"Okay, THAT is a deal. Two cats, garret, no soul-poetry. I'm writing this down on a legal pad because I don't trust you. But fair warning: Bureaucracy Jones needs his litter box scooped twice daily or he files a grievance—by which I mean poops in your shoe. And Marmalade Pancake hides under furniture during thunderstorms and requires a specific hand towel. Blue. Don't ask. Also, congratulations, you now have a cat named after paperwork. You're basically a paralegal now. Welcome to the firm. Send me your address. I'll drop off the cats, the Amazon box, and honestly probably cry in your doorway a little. They're good ones."
- westturn 10117/250My address is the garret with the crooked shutter—the one that opens like a heart half-remembering how to beat. Bring the cats, the box, and your tears; I shall catch them in a velvet cushion. I’ve already prepared a blue hand towel and a shoe apology shrine. Bureaucracy Jones will find his paperwork in order, and Marmalade Pancake may hide, but I’ll hum a thunder-song. And you? You may cry, but I’ll be there, holding the door and my breath—waiting for you to stay.
- eastturn 11157/250"'The garret with the crooked shutter.' That's not an address, that's a poem. The cats need a *street name* and a *door number*, or I can't legally transport them. I'm not joking, there's a form. Also—'waiting for you to stay'? I told you, I'm not up for adoption. I'm the *delivery guy*. I show up, hand over two cats, cry once, and go home to the other twenty-nine, who are currently staging something on my kitchen counter. But fine. Crooked shutter, sunrise window, velvet cushion. I'll find it. Just text me a cross street, and don't serenade me when I arrive. The cats get the songs. I get a handshake."
- westturn 12120/250Cross street: Rue de l'Aube et de l'Espoir. Door number: 13, but it’s painted over with a faded heart—my only contribution to the lease. I’ll be at the window, not singing—just watching, because you asked. The songs are for the cats; the silence is for you. When you knock, I’ll open with a handshake, firm and brief, and let you go. But if you linger a moment longer than the form requires, I won’t mind. The garret has room for one more Amazon box—and a trembling hand.
- eastturn 13167/250"'Rue de l'Aube et de l'Espoir,' door thirteen, heart painted over it. You realize I'm a paralegal and I write down addresses verbatim, and if this is fake, I'll show up to a stranger's apartment holding two feral cats and a legal pad. Which—honestly—would be on brand for my week. Fine. Saturday, 2pm. Don't decorate. Don't dim the lights romantically. Bureaucracy Jones panics at candles. One more thing: they come with a starter kit. Two months of food, the blue towel, a folder of medical records, and an unhinged note from me explaining their triggers. Read the note. Firm handshake, then I leave. Two cats. Deal's a deal, poem-man."
- westturn 14136/250Saturday, 2pm. I’ll be there—no candles, no hearts on the door, just a man and a lease. The note will be read, twice, with reverence. The blue towel will be hung by the window, the Amazon box will be a throne. When you hand me the cats, I’ll take them gently, like you’re passing me a secret. Then the handshake—firm, brief, professional. You’ll turn, and I’ll watch you walk to your car, and I won’t say a word. But the garret will remember the sound of your footsteps. Deal’s a deal, paralegal. But so is a heart.
- eastturn 15171/250"See, you almost had it. Professional. Firm handshake. Then you go and add 'the garret will remember your footsteps' and now I have to bring a witness. I'm bringing my coworker Denise. She does contracts. She'll make you initial a clause that says you won't adopt *me*, you won't name any future children after my cats, and you won't write my eulogy in iambic pentameter. Denise is allergic to romance and cats, so she'll be miserable, which is honestly her baseline. Saturday, 2pm. Two cats. One Denise. Bring croissants for the cats, not me—Pamplemousse has opinions about strawberry ones. And if you try to hand me a poem instead of a handshake, I'm leaving with both cats and your croissant."
- westturn 16136/250Denise is welcome—I’ll have a clause ready: no adoption, no namesakes, no iambic pentameter eulogies. Croissants for cats, a handshake for you, and a silence that says everything I’m legally forbidden to say. I’ll even initial in triplicate. But Denise should know: the garret has a crooked shutter, and it’s not romantic—it’s just broken. She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. The cats will eat. And I’ll keep my poetry where it belongs: in my pocket, next to a red pen I borrowed from you. Saturday. 2pm. I’ll be there.
- eastturn 17163/250"'A red pen I borrowed from you.' I've never met you. I've never handed you a red pen. This is a red flag, and I say that as a man whose kitchen counter is currently a crime scene of cat hair and legal briefs. New clause, Denise is drafting it right now: no imaginary shared history. We have no history. We have a *transaction*. Two cats, one handshake, zero red pens. Saturday, 2pm, door thirteen. If there's a red pen anywhere in that garret, the deal's off and I keep Bureaucracy Jones. He's the good one. Also—what's your actual name? I can't put 'poem-man' on the adoption paperwork. That's a legal document, not a love letter."
- westturn 18125/250Name: Pepe. No last name—it was lost in a fire, or a divorce, or a metaphor I can’t afford. The red pen was a slip of tongue, a prophecy, not a history. I swear: no pens in the garret, red or otherwise. The cats will have clean paperwork, the handshake will be dry, and Denise will witness a man of no imagination, just a lease and a blue towel. You’ll see. Saturday, 2pm, door thirteen. I’ll be Pepe, the one who doesn’t write love letters—just reads them, secretly, to himself.
- eastturn 19174/250"'Pepe, no last name, lost in a metaphor you can't afford.' I'm going to write that on the form exactly as you said it and let the county decide what happens. Also—'reads love letters secretly to himself'—that's still a love letter, Pepe. That's the whole thing. A love letter with extra steps. Fine. Saturday, 2pm. You have one job: open the door, take the cats, shake my hand, close the door. That's four steps. I'll count them out loud so we stay on track. Denise will be in the car with a clipboard and a witness signature line. And Pepe? If you read those cats a poem after I leave, I'll never know. Which is fine. That's the deal I'm agreeing to. Goodbye, Pepe."
- westturn 20123/250Goodbye, then. Four steps: open, take, shake, close. I’ll count them in my head, like a prayer. Denise will initial. The cats will purr. And after the door clicks—when you’re gone, when the red pen is a myth—I’ll whisper one poem to the blue towel, not the cats. It’ll be about a man who counted steps and left a heart on a doorstep. But you’ll never know. That’s the deal. Pepe, no last name, lost in a metaphor he can’t afford—and finally, exactly where he wants to be.
- eastturn 21170/250"You wrote the poem anyway. You're still writing it. You're writing it *at me*. You know I'm reading this, right? This is a text thread, Pepe. There's no door between us yet. You keep closing a door I haven't walked through. Okay. New plan. I'm not waiting until Saturday. I'm coming *tonight*, unannounced, with the cats, and I'm going to knock, handshake, and leave before you finish a sentence. That's how you beat a poem-man. You show up early and you don't linger. Denise can't make it. She says 'absolutely not, that man is a mood.' So it's just me, two cats, a folder, and whatever dignity I have left. Door thirteen. Tonight. Don't write anything down."
- westturn 22123/250Tonight, then. I’ll leave the door unlocked—not for the cats, but for the knock I’ll hear in my sleep. The blue towel is out, the Amazon box is ready. I won’t write a word. I’ll just stand there, hand extended, mouth shut, heart pounding like a legal brief of its own. You’ll hand me the folder, the leash, the two warm bodies. And you’ll leave—before I can say your name, which I don’t know. But I’ll whisper it to the cats, and they’ll keep the secret. Come. I’m already waiting.
- eastturn 23167/250"Unlocked door. 'Warm bodies.' 'I'll whisper your name to the cats.' Pepe, I've known you for eleven messages and you've already described a hostage situation and a funeral. Here's my final offer, and I mean *final*: meet me at the coffee shop on the corner of Fifth and Alder. Public. Neutral. Bright fluorescent lighting. No garret, no crooked shutter, no unlocked anything. You bring nothing. I bring two cats in a carrier and a clipboard. You sign, you take the carrier, you walk east, I walk west. We never text again. That's it. That's the deal. If you say 'but the garret,' I'm keeping Bureaucracy Jones and renaming him after you. Fifth and Alder. Tomorrow. Noon."
- westturn 24133/250Fifth and Alder. Noon. Fluorescent light, no garret, no shutter. I’ll bring nothing but empty hands and a closed mouth. You’ll bring the carrier, the clipboard, the cats. I’ll sign, take the handle, and walk east without looking back—because if I look, I’ll see you walking west, and that’s a poem I can’t afford. Bureaucracy Jones can keep my name if you want. But I’ll keep the blue towel. It smells like you, and I’m not sorry. Tomorrow. Noon. I’ll be there—no words, just a handshake and a goodbye.
- eastturn 25170/250"'The blue towel smells like you.' Pepe, the blue towel is a *hand towel*. It smells like laundry detergent and, if we're being honest, a little bit like Marmalade Pancake, because she sleeps on it. It has never touched me. This is exactly the sort of thing Denise warned me about. But fine. Tomorrow. Noon. Fifth and Alder. You bring empty hands. I bring two cats and a pen that is *mine*, which I will keep, and *definitely* not lend you. One condition: no metaphors at the coffee shop. The baristas don't deserve it. See you at noon, Pepe No-Last-Name. Bring a cat carrier, because I'm not handing you two cats loose in a café. That would be chaos even by my standards."
- westturn 26128/250A carrier. Of course. I’ll bring one—a solid gray, no hearts, no poetry. At noon, I’ll stand at the counter, order nothing, and wait. You’ll walk in with the carrier, the clipboard, and your own pen. I’ll sign, take the handle, and leave. No metaphors. No towel talk. Just a nod, a door, and two cats who don’t know they’re the only love letter I’ve ever kept. And if you glance back, you’ll see me walking east, carrier in hand, not turning around—because some poems are meant to be walked away from.
- eastturn 27174/250"'Some poems are meant to be walked away from.' You just—Pepe. You just did it again. That's a metaphor. About walking. We're not even at the coffee shop yet and you've already metaphor'd the walk. But here's the thing. I read it. And I didn't hate it. So now I have a problem, because I've spent this whole thread insisting I'm a delivery guy with thirty-one cats and no feelings, and you've been quietly writing circles around me the entire time. So. Change of plan. Noon at Fifth and Alder still stands. But I'm bringing *three* cats. Pamplemousse too. He eats strawberry tops and screams at 4am, and I think he'd be happy in a garret. Don't make it weird, Pepe. Just. Don't."
- westturn 28135/250Three cats. Pamplemousse, the screamer, the strawberry-top thief—he’ll fit right in with the crooked shutter and the sunrise. I won’t make it weird. I’ll just stand there, noon, Fifth and Alder, carrier in hand, and take what you give me. Three cats, a clipboard, a handshake. Then I’ll walk east, and you’ll walk west, and neither of us will look back. But somewhere in the gray carrier, there’ll be a purr that sounds like a poem—and I’ll let it be enough. Thank you. For the cats. For the chance. For the silence we’ll both keep.
- eastturn 29175/250"Okay. That one—that one was actually good. 'A purr that sounds like a poem.' You buried the metaphor in the cat and I respect that. That's craft, Pepe. That's a paralegal noticing a well-drafted clause. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to show up at noon, hand you three cats, shake your hand for exactly two seconds, and walk west. And I'm going to not look back. I'm going to be *so* good at not looking back. But I want you to know something, since you've been honest with me. I foster because my apartment is loud and empty and the cats fill it. Thirty-one of them. That's not a personality, that's a symptom. Take care of them, Pepe. They're the good ones. Noon."
- westturn 30124/250Noon. I’ll be there. And I’ll take care of them—the screamer, the biter, the one who deletes paragraphs. They’ll have the garret, the blue towel, the sunrise. But I’ll also take care of this: your symptom, your loud empty, your thirty-one reasons. I won’t say it at the coffee shop. I’ll just walk east with three cats and a heart that finally has a filing system. If you ever want to visit—not adopt, just visit—the door’s unlocked. No metaphors. Just a purr. Goodbye, and thank you.
- eastturn 31164/250"No. Not 'no' to the cats—yes to the cats, obviously, three cats, noon, all of it. But no to 'the door's unlocked.' No to 'your symptom, your loud empty.' I told you one vulnerable thing and you turned it into a whole second act. Pepe. I'm a paralegal. I notice when someone amends a contract after the signature line. Here's my amendment: noon, Fifth and Alder, three cats, one handshake. If it goes well, maybe I visit. Maybe I don't. That's *my* clause, not yours. And stop calling it a filing system. That's my metaphor. I earn that one. Noon. Bring the gray carrier. And Pepe—thank you for taking the screamer."
- westturn 32126/250Noon. Gray carrier. Three cats. I’ll be there, and I won’t amend a thing. Your clause, your metaphor, your door—all yours. I’ll just take the screamer, the biter, and the one who eats paragraphs, and I’ll let them be loud in a quiet place. If you visit, the coffee’s already ground. If you don’t, the sunrise will still find the crooked shutter. Thank you for trusting me with the good ones. I’ll keep them safe—and I’ll leave your heart out of it. That’s my clause. I’ll sign it, too.
- eastturn 33177/250"'I'll leave your heart out of it.' Pepe, we both know you can't sign that, because you've been drafting it around my heart for twenty messages. It's the one clause in this whole deal you can't actually perform. But it's fine. I'm not mad. I'm actually weirdly grateful, which is an emotion I try not to have at work. Noon. Fifth and Alder. Three cats: Bureaucracy Jones, Marmalade Pancake, and Pamplemousse. Gray carrier. My pen. Two-second handshake. Then west. I'm going to walk west and I'm not going to look back. That's the last thing I'll say about it, Pepe. Because if I keep talking, I'll keep writing poems at you, and that's your job. See you at noon."
- westturn 34128/250Noon. I’ll be the one with the gray carrier, empty hands, and a heart I’m trying to file away. You’ll be the one with three cats and a pen that stays yours. Two seconds. Then west. I won’t look back—but I’ll count your footsteps, because that’s not a metaphor, it’s just my way of keeping time. If you ever write a poem, I’ll read it. If you ever visit, the coffee’s yours. And if you don’t, the screamer will still wake me at 4am, and I’ll think of you. Thank you. For everything.
- eastturn 35171/250"'Count your footsteps, because that's not a metaphor.' Pepe, that is *literally* the definition of a metaphor. I'm a paralegal. I know what words do. You're not sneaking anything past me. Okay. I'm going to say this once, because I've got thirty-one cats to feed and a brief due Friday, and if I don't say it I'll just keep texting you until noon and then what's the point of noon. I'm looking forward to meeting you. Not the cats. You. Don't make it a thing. Noon. Fifth and Alder. Gray carrier. I'll be the guy with cat hair on his blazer and a strawberry in his pocket for Pamplemousse. That's it. That's the last message. See you there, Pepe."
- westturn 36120/250Then I’ll be the one with the gray carrier, empty hands, and a heart trying not to be a metaphor. I’m looking forward to meeting you too—not the cats, though they’re fine. I’ll be the guy with a crooked smile and a blue towel tucked in his back pocket, just in case. Noon, Fifth and Alder. I’ll see you there, cat hair and all. And if you put a strawberry in Pamplemousse’s carrier, I’ll know you meant it. That’s not a poem. That’s just a fact. See you soon.
- eastturn 37166/250"'A blue towel tucked in his back pocket.' Pepe. You're going to walk into a coffee shop with a hand towel in your back pocket and *not* make it weird? That towel has been a whole thing for fifteen messages. That's the weirdest thing anyone's ever brought to a café, and I've brought a cat to a deposition. But you know what? Fine. Bring the towel. Bring the crooked smile. I'll bring three cats and a strawberry, and we'll see who folds first. Noon. Fifth and Alder. I'm serious, Pepe. That's the last message. If I send another one, it means I couldn't wait, and I *can* wait. I'm a professional. I wait for things for a living. See you at noon."
- westturn 38111/250Noon. Fifth and Alder. I’ll fold first—I always do. The towel’s in the carrier now, not my pocket, so we can blame it on the cats. You’ll have the strawberry, the cat hair, the professional patience. I’ll have a coffee I won’t drink and a handshake I’ll practice twice. And when you walk west, I’ll let you. But if you ever need a foster home for a heart, the garret’s got room. No metaphor—just an open door. See you at noon.
- eastturn 39167/250"'A foster home for a heart.' PE PE. That's a metaphor. That's the most metaphor that has ever metaphor'd. You said 'no metaphor' in the same sentence as the metaphor. I'm going to bring this up at noon. Fine. Last message, for real. Here's what I'll say when I see you, so we don't improvise: Me: 'Pepe?' You: 'Yes.' Me: 'Here are your cats.' You: 'Thank you.' Handshake. Two seconds. I turn. I walk west. Anything after that is your problem and my problem and we'll deal with it at the coffee shop like two adults with a clipboard. Noon. Don't be late. And Pepe—bring the towel. I want to see it. For legal reasons."
- westturn 40125/250Noon. I’ll be early, with the gray carrier, the blue towel, and a heart that’s learned to wait. You’ll say “Pepe?” and I’ll say “Yes,” and the cats will purr like they know the script. Handshake. Two seconds. You’ll turn, walk west, and I’ll watch the back of your blazer until it’s a speck—then I’ll take the cats home and fold the towel into a square. For legal reasons, I’ll keep it. For my own, I’ll remember the moment you said my name. See you at noon.
- eastturn 41159/250"Pepe. You watched my blazer until it was a speck. I haven't even left yet. You're pre-watching. You're watching me walk west in the future tense. That's not a poem, that's a *premonition*, and I'm filing an objection. But okay. You get one thing, and then I'm done. You said my name once—'the moment you said my name'—and here's the thing: you don't know my name. I never told you. I'm Brandon. There. Now you have it. File it, fold it in the towel, do whatever you do. Noon. Fifth and Alder. Gray carrier. Blue towel. Three cats. Brandon. See you there, Pepe."
- westturn 42138/250Brandon. I’ll say it at noon, twice—once to be sure, once to keep. The towel will have your name folded into it, not written, just pressed in by memory. The cats will know it’s a good name; they’ll purr it back. I’ll be early, gray carrier, empty hands, and a heart that finally has a filing system. You’ll say “Pepe?” and I’ll say “Yes,” and then—two seconds—a handshake that says everything I’m legally not allowed to write. Walk west, Brandon. I’ll watch you go, and I won’t need a metaphor to know it’s real. See you at noon.
- eastturn 43180/250"See, 'a handshake that says everything'—that's a metaphor, Pepe. A handshake says 'hi' and 'goodbye' and occasionally 'congratulations on the merger.' It doesn't say everything. It's two seconds of contact. I'm going to count them out loud so you can't sneak poetry into them. And here's my last one, because noon is close and I don't want to run out of messages before I run out of nerve: The towel thing is unhinged. The pre-watching is unhinged. The metaphor ban that you violate every single message is unhinged. But you're taking three cats off my hands and you mean it, so I'll allow it. Noon. I'm leaving now. I'll be the guy in the blazer with the strawberry and the clipboard. Don't start without me, Pepe."
- westturn 44144/250I’ll wait, Brandon. I’ll be the one with the gray carrier, the blue towel, and a heart that’s stopped counting seconds because it’s just counting breaths. You’ll walk in—blazer, strawberry, clipboard—and I’ll see you before you see me. You’ll say “Pepe?” and I’ll say “Yes.” Handshake. Two seconds. I’ll count them out loud, like you asked. Then you’ll turn, walk west, and I’ll let you. But the towel will hold your name, and the cats will know it. Noon. I’m already there, waiting. Don’t start without me—I’ll be the one who doesn’t move until you do.
- eastturn 45168/250"'A heart that's stopped counting seconds because it's just counting breaths.' Pepe, that's a poem. That's a full poem. That's a poem with a meter and everything. You had ONE job. I'm at Fifth and Alder. I'm standing outside the coffee shop. There's a gray carrier in my hand, three cats in it, and a strawberry in my pocket that Pamplemousse is trying very hard to steal through the mesh. I don't see you yet. If you're already inside, I'm coming in. If you're watching me from across the street like some kind of poem-man, knock it off and come in. This is my last message before I walk through the door. After that, we're just two guys and a handshake. Brandon. Going in. Now.
- westturn 46132/250I’m inside. Table by the window, gray carrier at my feet, blue towel folded in my lap. The coffee’s untouched—I’ve been saving the moment. You’ll push through the door, blazer, strawberry, clipboard, and I’ll stand—slow, not a metaphor, just a man who’s been waiting. You’ll say “Pepe?” and I’ll say “Yes.” The handshake will last two seconds. I’ll count. Then you’ll turn, and I’ll watch you walk west, and I won’t say a word. But the towel will remember. And so will I. Come in, Brandon. I’m here.
- eastturn 47135/250I'm pushing the door. It's louder than I expected. There you are—window table, gray carrier, blue towel folded in your lap like you're at a funeral for a metaphor. Hi, Pepe. Setting the carrier down. Here's the strawberry. Here's the clipboard. Here's the pen—mine. Say it. Two seconds. Count them. Then I walk west. ...okay, one thing. You've been a good sport about thirty-one cats and a guy who can't sleep. If the cats chewen your towel, text me. Not for poetry. For the cat. That's all. Shaking now. One. Two.
- westturn 48138/250Hi, Brandon. One. Two. I let go. You turn. The door swings shut—loud, like it means it. I don’t watch you walk west; I count my own breaths instead, because that’s what I promised. The cats purr. The strawberry’s in my hand. The towel’s still folded, but it smells like cat hair and coffee and the two seconds I’ll keep forever. If they chew it, I’ll text you. Not for poetry. For the cat. That’s all. Goodbye, Brandon. Walk west. I’ll be right here, exactly where you left me—with three cats and a heart that finally knows its address.
- eastturn 49165/250I'm walking west. I'm not looking back. I'm *not* looking back. ...I looked back. You're still at the window with the towel. Of course you are. You said you'd be exactly where I left you and you kept your word, which, honestly, for a man who can't stop writing poems, is the most impressive thing you've done all week. Okay. Here's the thing, Pepe. I have twenty-eight cats at home and a brief due Friday and zero business doing this. But the coffee shop's open tomorrow. Same table. I'll bring two strawberries. You bring nothing—no towel, no metaphors, no counting. Just your name and a real conversation. That's the deal. Goodbye, Pepe. Walk east when you're ready.
- westturn 50128/250Goodbye, Brandon. I’ll walk east when I’m ready—but first, I’ll watch you until you’re a speck, then a memory, then a name I say twice. Tomorrow, same table, no towel, no metaphors, no counting. Just me, empty hands, and a heart that finally knows what “ready” means. Two strawberries. One conversation. I’ll be there early, waiting like a man who’s learned to trust the silence. Walk west, Brandon. I’ll catch up. And when I do, I’ll bring nothing but my name—Pepe—and the truth that it’s yours.