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It’s Christmas Eve: the stockings are hung, the presents are wrapped, and the cat is wearing mistletoe.
“Feliz Navidad, mon cherie.”
Sabrina makes a point to put her coat on the rack as slowly as possible, even smoothing out a few folds before turning to face Salem, “You look ridiculous.” She says, as deadpan as can be.
“You’re in love and you know it.” He purrs, tossing his head to emphasize what really can’t be ignored: a piece of Scotch tape (that’s slowly peeling off his fur) with a sprig of what looks like romaine lettuce suspended awkwardly over his nose. A kindergartener could probably manage a more dignified presentation, but Sabrina doesn’t have high expectations. If Salem doesn’t have access to a credit card and a computer, he’s all-thumbs…figuratively speaking.
“In love with you? Yes.” She slips free of her boots, proudly showing off her snowflake patterned socks, and scoops Salem over her shoulders like a living, breathing, and extraordinarily sassy mink coat, “In love with yet another ridiculous antic to get a kiss? Not so much.”
“To other people, this would be a cry for attention.” Cue the dramatics even as he nuzzles a messy path through her hair, “To you, it’s not even worth a drop of pity.”
“You poor, abused, neglected creature.” Sabrina breaks out the eggnog and pours out a healthy portion for both herself and him, “Why ever do you put up with such appalling treatment from me?”
“They call me a slave to my passions.” He pushes his face against her cheek. The tape finally peels off and the lettuce flutters over her shoulder. With an idle sweep of her index finger, it goes poof! And she can ignore it was ever taped to her cat’s forehead because he’s both too cheap and too incapable of finding a legitimate sprig of mistletoe.
“You’re a slave to quite a few things, Salem.” One hand reaches back and finds the special place behind his ears – the one that turns him into a furry puddle of purrs and affection – while the other takes the egg nog and retires to the living room, where her favorite blanket and a roaring fire await. “I refuse to believe all of them are your passions.”
“Well, certainly none of them match to yourself.” His tail bats the other side of her face, twice, while whiskers tickle the outer lobe of her left ear. He’s laying it on thicker than the eggnog tonight.
As such, she’s allowed to indulge herself a little bit. The nog can always be blamed after the fact.
“And I am the absolute truest of your passions, am I, Mr. Saberhagen?”
“Any passion standing before yourself, Ms. Spellman?” he even throws in a gasp, as if mortally offended at the mere suggestion, “I must insist you perish the thought at once! And pass the eggnog, while you’re at it.”
“For being of such great importance to you, Salem, I might have thought you could put in more creativity, trying to steal a kiss.”
“As if I have to steal anything.” He scoffs, already burying his face in the nog – like he didn’t put claws in the last carton, not five minutes after she brought it home from the store, and Sabrina found him standing in perfect line with the resulting stream.
“I know you did not just call me ‘easy’, Salem.”
“Hardly.” He’s smirking – or would be, if he had the facial muscles necessary for such an expression; as it is, she can hear it plain as day in his voice, “You’re simply so utterly in love that you are beset with the desire at every available opportunity. I was simply bringing the holiday spirit into things.”
“Scotch tape and day-old romaine lettuce.” She sips from her own mug, “Be still, my beating heart.”
“And how fast IS it beating, I do wonder?” again, a smirk that isn’t quite a smirk. She flicks his nose with a finger and tells him that little detail will be left up to his imagination.
Then she gives his nose a little kiss, just to make it better.