Leopard
By Daniel Webre
She said she had a pet leopard, and I said, “Of course you do.” She asked if I’d like to see it, and I told her, “Absolutely.”
We went back to her place that night. It was our first date and frankly I didn’t think it had gone that well. We’d seen a film at the Contemporary Arts Center—her idea. From what I’d gathered, it was about a plot to overthrow the government—our government—an idea I was less than enthusiastic about, and I guess she could sense this because she’d sat as far away from me as she could get without significantly distorting our row of folding aluminum chairs.
Afterward, she told me she hadn’t really been sure what the film was going to be about. She’d picked it because I am an artist, or at least that’s what I’d told her I was. The growing number of stretched but blank canvases collecting in my spare bedroom are beginning to tell a different story. But as of tonight, I still consider myself one—an artist, that is.
Anyway, we were standing at her apartment door. She said the leopard was inside, likely sleeping since that’s what leopards do the most of, but it might be awake hunting since it was night. She put the key in the deadbolt and turned, first the key, then her whole body toward me, and I kissed her. Her reaction told me I had misjudged the situation yet again. But although I could tell my timing had been off, she hadn’t pushed me away. It was more a lack of reciprocation. She permitted the kiss, but it had been with a kind of impatience. I made it a quick one, and she stared into my eyes with what seemed to me curiosity, like she couldn’t figure me out either. It was with relief that I realized she was holding the door open for me, and I followed her inside to see her leopard.
“That’s not a leopard,” I told her when I saw the cat in her apartment, but I wasn’t entirely convinced myself. It was about the size of a regular housecat, though it didn’t look like any housecat I’d ever seen. “It does have spots,” I said.
“Those are rosettes,” she said. “And technically it’s an Asian leopard cat, though you’re right—that’s different from an actual leopard. But he is my little leopard, aren’t you?”
I watched her stoop down and the cat rise up on its hind legs and swat at her. She laughed and cuffed it. The leopard fought back, until it bounded off to the side, then pranced back to rub against her legs.
I was thinking she’d brought me home to see some sort of metaphorical leopard. This one was a little too real for me, even if it wasn’t exactly the genuine article. “How did you get that thing?”
“My ex gave him to me.”
I watched as the leopard stretched, then suddenly chased after a beachball. “I didn’t know you could keep something like that. I mean, isn’t it endangered or something?”
“Not really. Anyway, he brought this one back from Texas.”
I nodded as though that somehow explained this wild animal running loose in her apartment.
“Have a seat,” she said.
I saw a Bauhaus chair, but decided on the sofa. Maybe there was more to this leopard after all. She sat on the sofa too, but not as close as I would have liked. I took advantage of the distance to admire her all over again. I was fascinated by her hair. It sprung forth in tight ringlets and framed her dark features. Her eyes were black and moist and her lips bulged forth slightly and seemed to ripen as we looked at one another. She smiled, but the distance held. The leopard was now sitting at her feet, and she stroked beneath its chin as it rubbed its face beneath her knee.
“He’s still a kitten, you know.”
I didn’t know. How would I know the age of this animal? “How big will he get?” I asked.
“Oh no, he’s full size. I meant his temperament. He’s still just a teenager.”
I’d never been in this situation before. I wanted to touch her, to hold her, but I wasn’t sure how to act around a leopard. “Does he bite?”
“Sometimes,” she said, and smiled again. She was rubbing her hand along the length of the cat’s body, and it was enjoying this, arching itself into her cupped palm. “He scratched up Jefferson pretty badly—my ex. They were fighting over me.” She winked.
I kind of chuckled, but it came out nervous, forced. What was I doing here anyway? I wondered if I tried to touch the leopard or if I moved toward her, if it would attack me. But she reached out for me. Bliss.
In the morning, I reached out and felt something warm and soft. Opening my eyes, I saw it was the leopard. It was curled into a tight spotted ball, with its chin turned up. I admired its coloration, its markings, the whiteness of its breast. But where was Cybil?
I freed myself from the covers, trying not to disturb the sleeping animal. I followed the scent of cinnamon into the next room. No Cybil, but I could feel the warmth of the sun shining inside and noticed the French doors were parted. There was Cybil on the balcony. She sat sideways in a wrought-iron chair, wrapped in a heavy white robe. Her bare feet dangled over the armrest. She was sipping something spicy, maybe chai, and she stared out toward a small courtyard below her balcony. I touched her shoulder.
“You’ll need to be going now.”
Her abruptness surprised me. “Okay. Any particular reason?”
“Yes. Jefferson will be here shortly.”
“Jefferson? Maybe I should stay.”
“No, you definitely should go.”
“But why?”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
If she had said something to this effect last night, I could have accepted it better. No, I would have even expected as much. But I had fallen for this woman, had nestled with her in this strange den. I had even grown fond of the leopard. But now she wanted me to leave.
I gathered my clothes, hesitating, waiting for her to at least come inside with me, and yet she never even shifted in the chair. I would have to find my own way out.
I walked past the French doors again to see what she was doing, hoping for a signal that might explain her change of heart. But she just continued to stare off into the distance, so I went into the kitchen and drew myself a glass of water from the tap—not quite ready to leave, but not wanting to push my luck with Cybil. I went one last time into the bedroom with the leopard. It was sprawled out now, lying on its back. It seemed to know I was in the room, and it stretched, flexing its upturned limbs and then relaxing. I thought I caught a glimpse of the sharpness of those claws, and I wondered what it must have felt like to be Jefferson, to have been scratched all to hell by a leopard, even if it hadn’t been a real leopard. Then I remembered I wasn’t welcome here anymore, and a funny thought crossed my mind on my way out. If I was going to paint one or the other of them, would it be Cybil or the leopard I would want on the canvas?
Daniel Webre's short fiction has appeared recently or is forthcoming Permafrost Online, Paper Dragon, The Coachella Review, Kansas City Voices, muse, and other places. He is the recipient of the 2023 Willow Review Award for Fiction and a Pushcart nominee.