I’ve moved a lot in my life; from state to state and neighborhood to neighborhood. I always found that redecorating is easier with freshly painted walls and a new address. Sometimes you also need to move because you’ve been fucking someone in your building and it’s gone sour. That happened to me in Chicago.
#40 and I had broken up, gotten back together and broken up again. Not only did we live in the same building, we worked together; so our fights were legendary. And numerous. In addition to nasty words in public, there was colorful drama where keys were thrown back and forth. I’m not proud of my behavior, but I was young and figure that’s a good enough excuse.
We had a lot in common, one thing being a mutual love for my cat, Bradbury. When things were good and I had to leave for a few days, #40 would cat sit and grew quite attached to her. The feline attraction was mutual but once we broke up, I put an end to it. Like any good parent, in retaliation, I refused to let him see her.
This was fine in theory, but one day the cat disappeared. She had roof access but when I looked for her, she was nowhere to be found. In a panic, I rushed upstairs to #40’s apartment and crying hysterically, pounded on the door.
“What the fuck? What’s wrong?”
I explained that Bradbury was missing and I was convinced she fell off the roof. Then I heard a meow. He opened the door wider and there she was, sitting calmly on his couch. I ran in to get her and when I turned to go, I saw something disturbing on his kitchen table. A box of cat food. He was luring my cat up to his apartment. And the greedy bitch was falling for it.
I promptly took her back downstairs and shut the window she had escaped from. If I couldn’t have the bastard, neither could she.
Moral of the story, no matter how bad the breakup, the guy is still going to want to play with your pussy.