When Your Girlfriend Says She’s Catwoman
by Candace Hartsuyker
When your girlfriend who says she’s Catwoman hides, it’s your job to find her. During your shift at the animal shelter, your girlfriend always likes to twine her fingers in the diamond chain link fence, lacquered nails glinting. You’re always sheepish, dragging a mop and bucket, cleaning up dog vomit or poo. Your hands smell permanently like the stinging soap they buy; the cheap, pulpy paper towels are scratchy against your hands.
When you arrive at the shelter, the hallway is dark. You flick a light on. The basset hound with filmy eyes, the pair of Bearded Dragons that always stare at you when you walk past them during your shift are there. The cash register is open. All that’s missing are the cats and the cash. All seven of them are the ones that have been at the animal shelter for far too long. These are the ones your girlfriend always saves. Unnamed, you can only identify them by their color: charcoal, tortoiseshell, cinnamon and lavender-cream.
You turn a corner and there’s your girlfriend. You remember the first time she surprised you with her costume, how she wriggled eel-like into the spandex, the costume molding to the contours of her body perfectly. You remember how she leaned over and whispered in your ear that she always wanted to be Catwoman, ever since she saw Michelle Pfeiffer’s pouty, poisonous lips.
This is her secret: when she’s Catwoman, she can forget her cat who died young, how the last image she remembers is sun-bright and wet-feathered, someone’s pet canary fluttering in the pink of his jaws.
You have a picture of her on your dresser of when she was a kid: soft ears made from black and pink felt, three lines of whiskers on each cheek drawn in black eyebrow pencil, rose pink lipstick for a tiny, kitten nose. Hands bared like claws. If you don’t ask her to take a break, she’ll go on for hours, telling you about cat mythology and superstitions.
Your girlfriend doesn’t expect you to be Batman or even Bruce Wayne. She does, however, expect you to chase her every night, even if you’re sick with the flu or hungover. So every night, sneakers slapping, you run. She always lets you tackle her. After it’s all over, sweat plastered to your forehead, quads on fire, you both walk hand-in-hand to a church or a cemetery, where there’s always a cat that needs to be rescued. And even though you’re allergic to cats, it’s always your job to scoop the cat up in your arms and take them home.
You’re Catwoman’s boyfriend, and it’s your job to make sure she knows she’s appreciated, that’s she’s not a crazy cat lady, that she’s a savior of felines, a girl with a cat’s green eyes that gleam sour apple green, the same color as your favorite flavor of Jolly Ranchers, the kind that everyone wants.
Candace Hartsuyker has an MFA in Creative Writing from McNeese State University and reads for PANK. She has been published in Trampset, Okay Donkey, Heavy Feather Review, The Hunger and elsewhere.
