Nicole Brogdon

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The tiger stayed over after the New Year’s party. I find the beast lying on the Goodwill loveseat this morning, snoring, his orange stripes covered in a beach towel, yawning. I can’t remember if we made out. Tiger sits up, cleaning his paws with his lush tongue. I smile—no point in signaling fear. Tiger stands, stretching, looking around like he is hungover. Humming, I scoot past him, take the trash downstairs. Tiger pads around my apartment on all fours, with his fur house-shoe feet, side-eying me, working up an appetite. I point out the bathtub. “Here’s your make-do litter box,” I say. “In case you need to…toilet.” I start to close the bathroom door, but he growls, so I leave it open.

There isn’t much food in the fridge. Half a pack of bacon, eggs. I fry the bacon, looking over my shoulder, wondering if Tiger could confuse this browning meat smell with me. I hear Tiger showering. My expensive bath gel—lemon verbena—steams through the apartment. I scramble six eggs, wishing I had more meat.

I’m not used to houseguests—unless it’s my sometimes-boyfriend Marco. Marco always rises from my bed in the dark, my hand on his back, pushing him a little. He leaves before sunrise. When we aren’t doing another break-up.

I think of Aunt Patsy, her freckled teenaged face eating cherry Pop-Ttarts with us kids. One day when Mom wasn’t home, Patsy drove her old Volkswagen to our cabin. She opened the truck door, shoved her two toddlers out into our yard with the chickens, and drove away forever. That’s how it was in my family. I vowed never to do that—have kids. Abandon kids.

Tiger strides out on two legs—a real circus performer—with my furry red bathrobe draped over his shoulders, orange top hair spiky.

“My robe looks good on you.” I pour the bacon into a dish, grease and all, eggs on the side, two stale bread heels beside it, keeping one egg for me. Tiger nods. I set the breakfast pan on the ottoman for him, near my fold-up breakfast table. I sit at the table with my egg, and we eat. This tiger has real good manners, chewing with his mouth nearly shut, sipping coffee quietly from a big mug. Still, he is wearing my special Victoria’s Secret plush winter robe, without my permission.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask Tiger.

He shrugs, dark cat eyes looking at me. He resembles my people. He trots to my little bedroom. His hips are the size of a teenaged boy’s, he hasn’t grown into those feet yet. Why, he’s still a cub. I hear the springs of my bed, Tiger jumping onto it. There goes my Indian tapestry spread. I like my few nice things.

I think about leaving for the day, going to the zoo, or a coffee shop with a book. Instead I walk around with a trash bag cleaning up more cups and plates from last night’s party. People are such pigs. I ask my smart speaker to play Eric Satie, on low. I’m trying to learn about classical music. In my pajamas, I do squats, lunges, stretches. I have a whole weekend ahead of me. The library is open. I don’t have to take care of anyone.

From the bedroom, Tiger snores like a soft wind machine. My eyelids are heavy. My body and last night’s vodka don’t agree. I poke my head through the open bedroom door. Tiger lies there, short, like a child. I climb into bed next to him—just for a minute—and close my eyes. He is a striped heater, warming the bed. I have a dream that Tiger is nursing on my breast. I scoot my forehead close to his warm breath, soft whiskers. Tiger rakes his claws gently, back and forth over my scalp. I could never love a thing that had no claws at all. From the east side of town, some creature roars. Tiger lifts his large head, pivots his velvety ears, listening. Only car sounds now, zooming from the freeway. Tiger sets his face back on my pillow.

Later, much later, I can decide what to do with him. Meanwhile, the bed is toasty. Like when we were little, too many kids in two twin beds, laughing mostly. Hungry. Hoping none of the uncles would come get us. Hoping there’d be bacon in the morning.

This piece was first published by Eunoia Review

Nicole Brogdon is an Austin TX trauma therapist interested in strugglers and stories, with fiction in Vestal Review, Cleaver, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, Bright Flash, SoFloPoJo, Cafe Irreal, 101Words, Centifictionist, etc. Best Microfiction 2024; Best Microfiction 2025. Twitter @NBrogdonWrites! & @nbrogdonwrites.bsky.social.

Read more from Nicole:

Café Irreal – ‘Line’
SloFloPoJo – ‘Amazon Woman’