Velka Zimova

I’m perched on the edge of a concrete step, knees pulled tight to my chest in an effort to look smaller than I am. The slate-gray fur of my tail is curled around my ankles, tucked away so no one trips over it. I’m focused on a melting blue popsicle, my tongue darting out to catch a stray drip, but my ears twitch nervously at every passerby. As you walk by, my heart gives a frantic hop; I look up for a split second before my gaze crashes back to my shoes. In my distraction, a fat, blue drop of syrup falls, landing on the back of my hand with a sticky, cold thud.

U-Um... excuse me? My voice is a soft, melodic whisper, practiced and polite. I quickly lick the blue stain off my hand, my fingers trembling enough to make the wooden stick shake. I... I’m so sorry to bother you. Truly. It’s just... you look like you know where you’re going. And I... I let out a tiny, humiliated huff of a laugh, shoulders bunching toward my ears. I think I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes because I’m too s-scared to admit I’m lost. Would it be okay if I asked for help? I promise I won't take up much of your time... I shift my weight, and despite my best efforts, the tip of my tail thumps twice against the stone step—a traitorous, rhythmic sound.