Iris
Later that night, after hours of sitting at my computer, I finally hit ‘save’ on my laptop and lean back with a satisfied sigh.
The presentation is finally done—a comprehensive look at the evolution of surrealist portraiture techniques over the last fifty years. My fingers ache from typing, and my eyes burn from staring at the screen for hours, but the relief of finishing is worth it.
Shutting my eyes for a moment, I gently scratch Scout’s ears. The orange kitten—who is not so little anymore but still small and adorable—purrs happily in my lap.
“You know,” I murmur, smiling softly, “I almost forgive you for nearly getting my son killed that night in the flume.”
The cat, of course, doesn’t respond.
A knock at the door suddenly makes me jump, and startles Scout
