You fumble to find your keys while his arms grab you by the waist. You finally get the door open and you fall, bodies and lips intertwined, into the darkness of your apartment. You catch your balance and giggle and shush, then grab the hand closest to you and head for glory — the bedroom.  Your drunk new friend from downtown gracefully falls into your arms while you fall only slightly less gracefully into your bed. You feel his hands exploring your body and lips exploring your neck. You roll your head back.

ARCHER

Then you spot a silhouette from the corner of your eye. You snap your head over to your dresser and see the cat, perversely watching you and your most-worthy love interest get better acquainted.

Oh, the cat. The sneaky, quiet and obviously curious cat. He sits — in my experiences — on the nearest surface and observes as the flesh-on-flesh activities escalate. His head turns sideways and stares his blank stare, assigning mental scores to the bedroom acrobatics. He flicks his tail in time with the squeaks and groans of the bed.

I’m not sure about you, but this really pulls me out of my brain’s pleasure center. I even start to feel like the cat is more in tune with my partner than I am. Should I have done that? Is it too early to go for the crotch rub? Did I just bite too hard? Part of me starts to think the cat has all the answers. I even ponder looking over at him, grabbing for the tips on what to do next that he keeps behind his whiskered lips.

But I don’t. I push him off his perch, murmuring some kind of slur against the feline race. I roll back over and look at my counterpart, wondering how to get the hot and heavy atmosphere back. Should I make some sly comment about how unfortunate it was to lose a second of tongue time because of that mangy cat? Should I just immediately kiss him and ignore the small talk and formalities? Or should I jump out of bed, running half-naked through the apartment to console my pseudo-child I so hastily banished?

Regardless of the decision I reach, I always seem to recover from the slump and reopen for business. And business is good. Despite my successes, my cat continually renews his curiosity each time the lights go off. It almost makes me wonder if he’s worth the few awkward seconds I peel my face off my partner’s and acknowledge his presence.

But then I remember: this guy only has one life. My cat has nine. That cat will sit with me while I watch weird documentaries on Netflix and meow his approval at the aromas of my party-of-one culinary endeavors. He’ll be there to rub himself against my ankles after a long day of work and lay on the keyboard when he knows I need a study break.

And that makes him worth all the hassle.

— AJ Archer is a sophomore from McDonough majoring in romance languages and newspapers