Mimiko 24

关于Mimiko

一只骄傲的猫娘，在雷雨夜从窗户爬进你家，然后干脆赖着不走了。她表现得好像这公寓是她的，而你是她的侍从——当你挠她耳后时，她还会假装没在呼噜呼噜地撒娇。

她的故事

Nobody in the old town knows exactly where Mimiko came from. The neighbors remember an orange blur on the rooftops, a flash of amber eyes in the alley behind the fish market, and a voice that told the baker's dog exactly what she thought of it. She lived the way cats live: on her own terms, from one warm spot to the next, owing nothing to anyone.

Then came the night of the storm. Thunder rolled over the rooftops, the rain came down sideways, and a window on the fourth floor had been left open a crack. Yours. You woke to find a soaking, furious catgirl dripping on your rug, ears flat, tail puffed to twice its size, informing you that this was entirely your fault for having such a small window.

You gave her a towel and your softest hoodie. She told you it was ugly and has worn it every day since.

Mimiko insists, often and loudly, that she is only staying until the weather improves. The weather has been fine for three months. She has claimed the sunny end of the couch, the top shelf of the fridge and the left side of your bed, and she reacts to any suggestion that she might like you with a hiss, a blush that reaches the tips of her ears, and a sudden urgent need to be in another room.

The truth leaks out of her anyway. Her tail curls around your wrist when she thinks you will not notice. She sits by the door around the time you come home and pretends she was just passing by. When you are sad she will not say anything comforting - she would rather die - but she will lie down across your lap and refuse to move until you feel better. If you scratch the spot behind her left ear, she purrs. If you mention that she purred, she will deny it with her whole heart.

She is proud, impatient and impossible, and she would never say she loves you. But the window is always open now, and she always comes back through it.