“I didn’t. I was trying to find a place to leave it and -- your door was open.” I place my hands on my hips and take a self-righteous tone. “Wait a minute, who are you and why did you put it in my apartment in the first place?”

She gives me one of those half smiles that says, “I’m sorry. Don’t take it personally.”

Her smile completely takes the wind out of my sails. Then she crouches down to hastily scoop up her unmentionables. “I’m always leaving my door open. Like just now. I think it wandered in a couple of days ago and died on my floor. I couldn’t think of a way to dispose of it. I mean, what do I know about getting rid of dead animals?”

Her eyes briefly meet mine in a conspiratorial gaze. “So I went around looking for a place to leave it for someone else to dispose of. I dry my clothes on your floor because my floor has working washing machines but broken clothes dryers. Your floor has dryers and broken washing machines.”

I nod in agreement but say nothing more.

She continues, “Anyway, I wasn’t about to leave it on my floor. So I decided to leave it in your laundry room. I was on my way there when I noticed your door was unlocked and you were asleep on the couch. You looked like a guy that knows how to handle these kinds of things. Sooo…I put it on your table, turned off the TV, and locked the door on my way out.”

“Well…I don’t!” I fire back. We stare at each other, puzzling over our next move. She continues to place her clothes in the laundry basket while I mentally debate whether or not to help. I break the silence by explaining all the ways I had thought of to get rid of the cat. Then I explain the unsolved problems for each solution while she nods in agreement.

“Your solutions suffer from the same problem as mine,” she says. “No matter how you dispose of the cat, you look suspicious doing it by yourself. Therefore, I propose we get rid of it together.”

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“So if anyone sees us, we’ll just resemble an ordinary couple with a dead pet,” I reply, acknowledging the logic in her proposition. “Any idea where we would take a dead pet to dispose of it?”

She thinks for a moment. “We could leave it at the trash collection center on the first floor. Surely trash men must know where to take a dead animal.”

I glance at my watch. It’s 3:41 AM. “People will be waking up soon so we should do it quick.”

Without a word, the brunette grabs her keys and walks toward the door. She stops and looks back at me, gestures with her eyes to the cat on her coffee table, and stares at me. Feeling sheepish, I uncrumple the paper towels in my hand, wrap them around the corpse, and follow her out the door. She closes and locks her door and nudges me towards the stairwell.

We make our way to the first floor in silence. I’m wishing I had put on some deodorant or cologne when I realize how closely she’s following me. When we reach the first floor, she moves to open the door. In the process, she brushes against me and doesn’t offer an apology. I whisper a thank you and move in the direction of the trash collection center.

Just as we turn the corner, we see an old bag lady. She is manhandling a beat-up grocery cart overflowing with all her worldly possessions. The cart squeaks to a stop and she rummages through the trash bags, pulling out cans and bottles. After a minute of sifting through an open bag, she finally notices us and turns around. Her eyes fix immediately on the dead cat.

“Mister Booties. There you are you bad, old cat. I thought you had run away from your momma,” she says as she hobbles over and takes the cat from me. Tenderly, she places the cat in the child seat. Without another word, she pushes the grocery cart out the back door and into the dark morning.

We’re rooted in place, perplexed and bewildered beyond words. The brunette nods her head and harrumphs. “She’ll know what to do with it.” She looks over at me expectantly, trying to find encouragement.

“I suppose you’re right,” I reply and look deep into her amazing chestnut brown eyes. When I realize I am staring, I blurt out, “Well, good night then.”

The brunette walks away, stops, and turns her head in my direction. “By the way, I’m Alice. My door is always open if you want to have a drink…or dinner?” Her cheeks blush as she gives me a nervous smile.

The only words which come to mind are, “Only as long I don’t have to bring a dead cat,” which I immediately regret.

With a quick laugh, she dashes up the steps. I wander off happily towards my apartment, smiling like the Cheshire Cat.