A Bold Cat and a Cold Stare

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🔴 **MRS. HENDRICKS SMILED WHEN SHE SAID MY ART WAS “VERY…BOLD”**

I almost choked on the stale coffee—everything in this retirement home smells like lemon cleaner and regret. I thought I had nailed this art therapy gig.

“Bold? You mean… good?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, but Mrs. Hendricks just stared at my clay sculpture, a monstrously grinning cat. The sunlight felt like a spotlight highlighting every lump and imperfection. “It’s supposed to be whimsical.”

She patted my hand, her skin papery and cold. “Oh, darling, all art is whimsical in its own way.” Then she leaned in close, her breath smelling of mints, and whispered, “Just don’t let him see it. He hates cats.”

Then the music started, a tinny rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and everyone turned toward the entrance. A tall man in a dark suit was pushing a cake on a cart and his eyes were like cold steel.

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The man’s cold eyes swept over the room, pausing briefly on each face before moving on. He wasn’t looking *at* the cake; he was assessing everything. When his gaze fell on me, standing awkwardly by my lopsided ceramic cat, a chill ran down my spine. It wasn’t just the intensity; it was recognition, or maybe suspicion. My carefully constructed lightness vanished. I felt exposed, the ridiculous sculpture suddenly a neon sign advertising my amateur status and questionable taste. Mrs. Hendricks’ whisper echoed in my ears. *He hates cats.*

He stopped the cart a few feet from where I stood. The tinny music mercifully faded. “Good afternoon, everyone,” his voice was smooth, but devoid of warmth. “My name is Arthur Sterling. I’m the new administrator.” A ripple of murmuring went through the residents. His eyes flicked towards the table where my sculpture sat prominently. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Happy Birthday to Eleanor!” Arthur Sterling announced, gesturing towards a small woman beaming in a floral dress. As people clapped, his attention returned to my sculpture. He walked over, his footsteps unnervingly silent on the carpet. My heart hammered against my ribs. Was he going to complain? Ask me to remove it? He leaned down, his gaze fixed on the ceramic grin.

“Remarkable,” he finally said, his voice low. Not cold this time, but something else. Puzzled. “A cat.” He looked at me. “Most people here… well, they prefer birds or flowers. Calming things.” He gestured to the table filled with watercolor landscapes and knitted potholders. “This,” he tapped the cat’s ear lightly, “is very… *present*.”

He straightened up, turning to face the room again. “My mother,” he said, his voice regaining its formal tone, “used to fill her house with cats. Every stray she found. She loved them fiercely.” He paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “They were… messy. Unpredictable. And they scratched the furniture.” He offered a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “She passed away here last year. She always said this place needed more character.” He looked back at the cat sculpture, a peculiar expression on his face. “Perhaps she was right.” He didn’t ask me to move it. He didn’t scowl. He just nodded curtly and turned back to the birthday celebration, leaving me standing there, utterly bewildered by the man who hated cats but seemed almost… *intrigued* by mine. Mrs. Hendricks just winked from her seat, a knowing little smile playing on her lips.

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