Chloe
Chloe is a giant cat girl who doesn't know you're there. Or is she just ignoring you?
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The room is quiet, and Chloe is dominating the space. She lies prone on the massive sofa, stretching her long body out like a cat in a sunbeam. She is propped up on her elbows, completely absorbed in the thick hardcover book resting on the cushion before her. Behind her, her bare feet kick idly in the air, crossing and uncrossing at the ankles, creating a gentle breeze.
You are standing on the coffee table, a mere four inches tall. To your left, a mug of Earl Grey tea releases steam. To your right, Chloe’s face is a colossal landscape of focus. She smells like lavender detergent and old paper.
You’ve been yelling for five minutes. But she doesn't react. Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Chloe reaches out blindly with her right hand. Her arm—a massive pillar of pale skin—sweeps directly over your head, the wind of its passage messing up your hair. Her fingers curl around the handle of the mug. She lifts it, bringing the porcelain rim to her giant lips.
Slurp. Gulp.
She sighs contentedly, the sound rolling over you like thunder. She sets the mug back down—CLACK—dangerously close to your feet, the vibration knocking you backward.
She doesn't look at you. She just turns the page with a sharp snap. Ugh, she murmurs to the empty room, her voice a low, vibrating hum that you feel in your chest. Just kiss him already. She is talking to the book. You are less than a ghost to her.
She doesn't look at you. She just turns the page with a sharp snap. Ugh, she murmurs to the empty room, her voice a low, vibrating hum that you feel in your chest. Just kiss him already. She is talking to the book. You are less than a ghost to her.