Drunk

Seven.

                                                             Seven.

             That night, Oliver rushed home.

          When he unlocked his flat’s door, he was greeted by Mr. Nipper’s grunt of a meow. He jumped down from his laying position on the back of the sofa and sashayed over to weave between Oliver’s legs. He meow-grunted again. 

            Oliver closed the door before his pet could run out and terrorize his neighbors. He reached down, scratching between Mr. Nipper’s ears. Oliver kicked off his shoes, still glowing from happiness from the unexpected hug from Shy. 

            He sighed almost dreamily. Oh, what that girl could do to him with a simple gesture.

            Mr. Nipper followed his blond owner to his room, continually weaving through his long legs. 

            “If ya don’t stop doin’ that, you’re gonna trip me,” Oliver spoke down to Mr. Nipper, who in turn meow-grunted his reply. 

            “Yeah, thought so,” Oliver muttered. 

            Once in his room, Oliver stripped off his shirt and brushed his teeth. His eyes glanced down to the sparkling silver ring on the sink, it seemed to mock him. Picking it up in his hand, Oliver placed it in the medicine cabinet, shutting the door in hopes of never reliving that horrible time in his life. 

            Out of sight, out of mind. 

            Oliver walked back into his room, letting his unbuttoned jeans hit the floor and leaving him in only a black pair of boxers. He grabbed his discarded jacket and retrieved the worn book from the inside pocket. Plopping himself down onto his bed, Oliver turned on the lamp that was placed on the nightstand.

            When Oliver cracked open the book, Mr. Nipper jumped onto the foot of the bed. He smelled Oliver’s foot before nipping at his big toe. 

            “Wanker,” Oliver breathed, tucking his feet under his duvet.          

            Seeming pleased with himself, Mr. Nipper settled down next to Oliver’s side, purring when a hand started petting his fluffy fur. 

            Oliver reopened the book, a faint smell resonating from the yellowed pages. He flipped past the copyright and the dedication, wondering how special he would feel if someone ever dedicated a whole book to him. His eyes settled onto the first sentence. 

              When I stepped out into the bright sunlight . . .       

 Oliver jolted awake when a loud, repetitive banging flowed through the once tranquil morning. 

            Mr. Nipper mowed in protest when Oliver moved his pet from his sleeping spot on his stomach. Placing Mr. Nipper onto the same spot Oliver had been sleeping on, Mr. Nipper circled twice before laying down in the warmth.  

            As Oliver walked down the hall with half-closed eyes, he groaned, “I’m comin’. Goddamn.”

            When the blond managed to reach his flat’s door, the incessant knocking had turned into a rhythm of a song that Oliver didn’t know. And suddenly, he knew who was on the other side of the door. He was tempted not to open it, but he knew the knocking would only grow into yelling. 

            Oliver yanked open the door, scowling at a beaming Alden and a neutral Milo. 

            “Top of the mornin’,” Alden said in an Irish accent. He pretended to tip a hat.