Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,

I am quiet, a cat, gliding through the dark alley of the foreign city and feeling my way around the corner of a brick wall. It's surface is cold, and hard, but through the leather gloves that warm her fingertips it is hardly a problem. The street is lit by candle coloured lights with beams as wide as a living room lighting circles along the pavement. A broad roadway is empty, not a jetta or mercedes to activate the area. I liked it like this. Quaint. I am used to the surroundings of a small town, I hardly have patience for here. The big city. But here is the only place big enough to hide me. The only place where faeries roam outside and where my scent and trail might be lost. It's my only hope.. And I must adjust.

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens

Leather boots with flat bottoms are soundless against the cobblestone pathway as I lead myself down the sidewalk. Most stores are closed, that much is certain. It isn't like Burbank, where the gas station is open for locals, and sometimes the drug store lady keeps her doors open for children wanting late night snacks. Or Miln, a friendly grocery store owner who does the same for perhaps a local wife in dire need of a breast of chicken. In Burbank, everything was so simple. Things were so easy. Why wasn't it easy anymore? I shake off the feeling of misery before I let it effect me more. I have spent days, weeks, a month chilled to the bone on why things had to change. It would do me no good to keep lounging on such jaded ideas.

Mother must be worried sick. I smile at the memory of her cooking me my favorite dessert, Saskatoon berry pie, with a golden crust and a slightly soft filling.

And then I remember mom cannot be worried sick anymore. Mother is dead.

They all are. The people I knew, loved, lived, grew with.. They all died when they were scheduled to. I appeared silently at their funerals, hidden by thick brush and leaves, not daring to show myself incase I drew attention. I watched mother die at the age of 30 to a cold. I watched father die at the age of 40 (a year after my mother) from depression. My best friend Olivia grew up happily with a charming husband named Philip. They had two kids named Charles and Francis. I watched them die too.

I wish I had died on my scheduled time, on the day I was supposed to. Instead of watching everyone grow and live, experience life with no sense of loss. Sure, they saw loved ones pass. But they didn't have to watch it continuously. They didn't have to meet someone knowing there was no point to actually knowing them, because people die.

I hinder at the entrance of a shiny bar. I wish not to make a scene, but something beckons me in. Something warm, and friendly. I cannot help but push on the door and wipe my feet quietly on the mahogany floor mat. My eyes gaze around at the bar, its gold trim and shined glass counter top. Beautiful champagne glasses accompanied beside rounder and deeper wine glasses hang from a wooden holder along the white cream ceiling. A bartender in a white dress shirt and black dress pants with a shimmering red tie gives me a nod. A nod I return because I am not sure how people of this era communicate yet. I have spent so much time secluded.. I am like a church mouse being brought into a pet store.

A table in the corner seems inviting enough. I take a seat with my eyes gazing along the navy blue coaster, before a woman comes up in a shockingly revealing assemble.

"What can I getcha, ma'am?"

I stare at her, blatantly stare, because I am not entirely sure if she is allowed to dress in such a way. Certainly I am not in the usual wear from my era.. But I am definitely covered. My black jeans are skin tight into my knee high leather boots (more like riding boots to me, regardless of the steve madden tag along the back zipper), and a shirt with a scarf. Nothing is showing. Nothing like her thin figured thighs and her impressively large cleavage staring me more in the face than she is.

I simply clear my throat, "a water."

She smiles and heads off, I watch a gentleman hang his tongue out in her direction. Repulsed, I turn back to my side of the bar, viewing beautifully made pictures and artwork completing the wall.