FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

March 23rd

The next thing I can clearly wrap my mind around is that the surface on which I'm laying is quite soft. If I was thrown out last night, somehow, they must have thrown me out on a sofa. That makes my inner mind giggle with itself. I'm not thinking clearly yet, but the daylight forces me awake. I put a paw to my forehead, and brush against a bandage or something. There's a throbbing pain underneath it. Someone's patched me up.

It is probably the same someone who has taken my heels off and placed them neatly next to the sofa, on a thick, white carpet. I say a silent thanks. I know I should have a lot of other priorities. But I can't seem to get over the fact that those shoes are actually kind of expensive, and I don't want to lose them. My brain feels like mush.

I seem to be in some sort of nice-looking apartment. The furniture looks relatively new, or perhaps just lightly used, but it's not the most expensive kind. The room I'm in is large, and pleasantly lit, once I get my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Probably a living room. There's large windows both in front of the sofa, and over across the room, behind an open plan kitchen, which is almost spotless, and doesn't smell of spices or oils like mom's or mine. The level to which this apartment is furnished and cleaned is actually unsettling. I feel like I've been thrown directly into an interior decorating magazine.

There's a small table next to me, one of those sharply edged, sleek and Scandinavian things. My purse is there. Thank god. I pray the contents have not been checked, but I can't work up the energy to think about whatever consequences my daring excursion might have had. Everything seems to be in place.

I poke experimentally at my injury. It must have been a powerful smack because I feel a significant, throbbing bump underneath that bandage. My ankle throbs with pain too, but it doesn't feel broken at least, and my headache makes the pain distant and unfocused. I've still got my dress and make up on, judging from the itchy skin around my eyes, and after a quick check, I've got my underwear too. No foreign smells. Thank god, at least it didn't go that badly.

I quickly look through my phone, but there's no new messages or missed calls. Did I really pass out, or did my body just decide to sleep? I've heard that passing out is actually really dangerous, so I thank my lucky stars that I woke up with just a headache. A very powerful headache.

Timidly, I get up on my good leg and try to put weight on my injured ankle. It hurts. I can't help letting a small whimper escape, bordering on crying out. Suddenly, I hear footsteps. There's someone else here.

What if it's Walt's house? What if he brought me home to his place? What if he's now coming around to deal with me? Oh god, please let my suspicion be wrong.

I feel so weak, I don't think I could've run away, even if I wanted. The sound of footsteps approaches. I try to swallow back panic and put on a brave show. What else can I do? Shake and whimper like a little bitch? I'm already way ahead on that front. Fuck it. This is real. I'm going to call the police if he so much as looks at me. I've got my phone at the ready, the number dialled. I don't know where I am, but I'll call and leave it connected if I feel threatened, then they have to act. I hope that's how it works. I let my thumb hover over the call icon on my screen, while I call out into the blank, white apartment.

"H-hello?"

My voice carries on the stone walls. I still remember to put on the femme voice, though it's coarse and cracking, just in case it's not the wolf.

"Oh, thought you'd never come around," a voice from behind me says. It has a foreign accent. I turn around slowly, hopping slightly on my injured leg, and look for the source of the voice. In this pale white room, with white furniture, and white carpets, it's hard to pick him out at first. He's wearing a bright white bathrobe, standing against the light of a doorway.

"Are you okay? Can... uh, can I get you anything?" His voice rings in my ears again, but I can't make sense of his words.

I somehow manage to bring the figure into focus. I can see two pointy, long white ears, a long white muzzle, a black nose, and a pair of deep blue eyes. His fur is so thick and short, I swear it's sculpted around his figure like some form fitting, white jumpsuit. I've never seen fur so closely cut, not outside of a magazine. He must go to a specialist for that. The kind of fur you just want to touch, just to feel the texture of. I chide myself for that thought. I'm not thinking clearly. From the damp air, it smells like he's just got out of the shower, and the wolf scent is strong and undiluted, either by perfume or soap. I'm getting flashbacks from last night.

The wolf comes over to me. Instinctively, I flinch and move to protect myself. My head hurts, my foot hurts, and I feel vulnerable. My thumb hovers over the call button. But I don't press it. The wolf stops in his tracks.

"Hey, hey easy there, darling," he says, it looks like he's half smirking. I think he's Australian. Wait, did he just call me darling? I can feel my good leg shaking under my weight, and I grope for the couch, sitting down carefully and clutching my head.

"I f-feel dizzy," I somehow manage to stammer.

"You're lucky to be standing upright," he says, "Thankfully, this isn't the first concussion I've seen."

The wolf disappears for a moment and reappears with a glass of water, which he places gently before me on the little coffee table. He then seats himself across the table from me on an ottoman. Or maybe it's just a regular foot stool. If he wanted to hurt me, or whatever else, he could've done it long ago. But there's no trace of any of his scents on me, as far as I can tell. I don't have any untoward pain in my body other than those I can account for. I feel slightly safer that I'm not going to be beaten up, my shaking stops, and I can pick up the glass. It's very cold and almost hurts going down, but I can feel my body regain control of itself slowly as I rehydrate.

"You hit your head pretty badly there," he says and nods to my bandaged head. "Can you recall anything from that night?"

"I guess." I feel the bulge underneath my fur ache as I move my jaw to talk. "What happened? Where am I? and who-"

I have to stop myself when I realize I know the answer to that last question before I say it. I've seen him before. In the picture still pinned to my bathroom mirror, where he's depicted hugging Regina.

"You're in my flat. You're safe. I'll tell you what happened in a minute." He pauses. I can tell it's not for my benefit that he does. "Miss Regina."

I start to nod. Yes, that's right. That was the name I'm supposed to have, it says so on the list.

"I have to say, I was surprised when the maître d' told me my companion had fallen and hit her head. Particularly since I didn't bring one."

He studies me with those deep blue eyes. I can't tell for certain, but I am not sure he's angry with me. He doesn't sound angry.

"So, you could probably imagine my surprise when I find my 'companion' is a charming young dalmatian."

I hesitate to even speak, I don't know how much he knows, and I don't trust myself to tell him anything.

"Who are you, really?" he asks. "You don't have to use a fake name this time, I promise I won't tell anyone."

I catch a glimpse of shining canines underneath his drawn-up lip. It's one of those tv smiles that show off teeth in a very pleasant and non-threatening way. It's kinda' disarming. It gets under my guard, at least. My real name is androgynous enough that he might not suspect anything.

"I'm... uh... I'm Reece," I say, after deliberating for a while. I've not yet put away my female voice. Perhaps I don't have to explain.

"Reece... That's a pretty name," he says. "Do you really work for a newspaper, Reece?"

I only shake my head. I can't bring myself to look into his eyes.

"Do you often sneak into parties and get on the nerves of the biggest guys in there?" He continues. Again, I don't know what to say. I flick my ears back and look at my feet.

"No?" He asks, shrugging and shifting to his feet. "I'm not angry with you, Reece."

I look up when I notice a movement. He's moves from the little stool, and crouches next to the sofa, so that he's at my eye level. He's really close, and his scent fills my nostrils. It's very nice, despite the dampness, despite my pain and fear. I can feel blood rushing to my head, and it makes my bandage bulge.

"You're not? But I... I snuck inside and... and," I stutter. I'm confused and hazy still, but some of my worries are clearer than other. "My stuff... did you look at it?"

He looks taken aback, and his eyes flick to the purse on the table.

"No," he says, drawing out the word. "Walt might have gone through your stuff, but we took the purse from him when we carried you to the taxi." He scratches his fur behind his ear.

"We? Taxi? What happened?"

He gets up and sits down next to me in the sofa. His weight on the pillows makes them angle towards him, and I have to shift away from so that I don't slide into his lap. That'd just be the perfect way to end this farce. I can see our faint reflections in the large windows which the sofa is facing. He's almost a foot taller than me, but that's not much of a feat. His fur coarse and thick, but really short, where mine is flat and brushed down. It'd be so easy for me to just reach over and touch it. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks. But that's just me not thinking clearly again.

"I don't know much, but here's what I know," Paul says, "I'm tapped on the shoulder by the maitre'd. Immediately, I suspect something wrong. I can no longer see Walt in the room, nor that strange dalmatian, you know. If there's trouble anywhere, that's where he is. We found you spread out on the floor. Walt was holding your purse. I don't know what he wanted with it, he mentioned something about an interview and voice recording gear or whatever. I took the purse from him and we carried you to a taxi. Didn't know if you had insurance, you know, and it didn't look so bad. I've seen worse. Remy gave up his ascot for that head of yours."

I clutch what I thought was a bandage. It is very smooth to the touch and silky as well.

"Why would Walt worry about that?"

Paul looks over to me, but I can't focus on what he's saying. If that big brute looked through my purse, he might have found my student ID. He could know who I was. From there, he could find out where I live.

"Reece?" The voice startles me, and the jolt radiates pain through my head. "I want to know what happened. He said something about recordings and journalists. But we don't allow the press inside, and you didn't show up on any lists. I don't think you're freelance either. Tell me. What did you want with Walt?"

"I wanted to interview him... I guess."

"And why did you want to interview a mechanic?" Paul asks. There's a glint to his eyes. "I'd have been happy to talk to you."

"I can't explain," I mumble and shake my head. I feel my cheeks flush. "I just needed to ask him some questions."

He nods slowly. "Was it perhaps... not an entirely professional capacity?"

He's got me there, I guess. It's hard to find the right words, and to even attempt to lie when his eyes are boring straight into my soul like that.

"That's one way of describing it."

"Okay, so you're not actually a journalist then?"

I shake my head.

"Right, good. That makes this much easier. You two went outside, but then what?"

I screw up my face and try to remember what happened before the blackness. I need another moment to think how to say it without revealing completely what went down.

"I guess I must have said something that offended him, because... he got really angry and when I turned to walk away... He put a paw on my shoulder, and I fell. That's all I remember."

"You fell? And hit your head? Are you sure he didn't push you? It if was an assault, we should tell someone."

I shake my head. I'm sure I fell, and I really don't want to see more of Walt, especially not in court. I've never been so terrified as when his expression changed, when I could feel his eyes on me. His incredibly sensitive wolf snout discovered me as soon as we were on our own. It slowly dawns on me, and what little blood I had left in my head drains and makes me dizzy again. Paul knows.

"I-I f-fell," I stammer. I feel tense, and it feels like I can't get enough air. My clothes feel restrictive. I can sense him looking at me, looking underneath to see what I am hiding. I meet his eyes again. They are so intense; I can't stop the words coming out of my mouth. "And... uhm... I lied, a little." My heart is racing. This feels so wrong. It's surreal.

"Oh?" His eyebrows arch and his tail pats against the back of the sofa cushion. He's feigning ignorance. I know he knows. But he's not saying anything, and he's smiling. For fucks sake, he's going to make me spell it out, isn't he? What is his problem, does he feel the need to play the fox game with me?

"I'm... not what you think I am." I stumble over my words, I don't really know how to come out with something like that, so I go for the most cliché line imaginable.

"And what is it you think I think you are, if I may ask?"

"A girl," I mumble. My voice drops to my natural register, and my gaze hits the floor along with it. Suddenly my dress, my makeup, my shoes, it all feels wrong. I feel like it doesn't belong to me. Like I've stolen a policeman's uniform or something. They're my clothes, and I can wear what I like... but I've never felt like I wanted to wear any clothes less than the ones I'm wearing now. Once the disguise is revealed, I feel like it vanishes from my body, and I am left naked and exposed.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he laughs, but I don't find it funny at all. "You better be more careful around us. Wolves can tell.

"I fully intend to," I groan, and bury my face in my paws. I wonder how many other wolves I've encountered before, who also could tell but were too polite to say anything.

"Especially Walt, be careful around him. He's... a difficult person to be yourself around. Bit of a bigot, you know. I'm sorry that you had the displeasure of his company."

I'm not sure I'm following the words coming out of his muzzle. I'm in the living room of a famous racing driver confessing my crossdressing to him while suffering what feels like a concussion, and he thinks it's... amusing? Funny? Charming? What exactly? At least he doesn't give the impression that he wants to kick my ass or throw me out, so that's a plus. But I've been wrong about people before. What happened next, I was not prepared for at all.

"I like your initiative," he says and pats my sore head very carefully, resting his paw there for just a moment. "That was a very brave thing you did, and of course, very stupid. But I think you presented well. You clearly put a lot of work into that outfit. I couldn't tell until I got right up close. I kept it secret, of course. But man, you really rocked that dress, good on ya'."

This is just too much to deal with right now. I try to relax, using a technique I've learned, to focus on a single sensation I'm experiencing right now. I focus on his paws, not so obviously that he notices of course, and focus on that part of me which is not afraid and worried for my security. He's got big paws. And his fur and his paw pads are both very soft and warm. It slips across the top of my head only briefly, but it feels longer when I focus all my attention on it. I slowly allow my eyes to open, focusing on his words again.

"Thanks, I guess," I say while I concentrate. It feels strange to accept such a compliment. I put a lot of effort into my disguise, but I hadn't expected to hear it from this guy, out of all people.

"I didn't thank you for saving me, did I?"

"Oh, don't think about it, it's just how I was brought up." He looks away, smiling whistfully. "Mom always said that I should protect those who need help. You looked like you needed help."

"I suppose I probably did... I'm sorry I snuck into your party. The wolf... Walt... He had this scent. God I can't believe I'm saying this. His scent-"

He stops me with a raised paw. I'm really thankful that he does, so that I don't have hear myself making a fool of myself again.

"I already know what you're going to say. That stinky mutt has this thing about masculinity. It's meant to attract ladies, but I don't think it is limited to them, to put it simply. You wouldn't be the first guy who's gotten caught up like that."

He seems to drift off, and his eyes glaze over for a moment, and he grows distant.

I suddenly feel like I shouldn't be here. I don't want to be near other people. I can't bring myself to tell him more. I haven't got any plans, but I need to be alone. I am also starting to feel slightly queasy from the way the room moves whenever I shift my gaze, and I'd rather not throw up all the rich food and champagne from yesterday on his clean, white furniture.

"Paul, can you take me home?" I ask him timidly. "I don't think I could get home by myself right now."

He hesitates for a while. "Of course, wasn't about to just throw you out, was I?" He smiles, but there's concern and worry behind his eyes. "Don't you want something to eat? Do you need a shower? Do you want some painkillers?"

I shake my head, but very slowly. I need all those things, but I can't stand being here and I don't want to disappoint him.

"I just need to rest, and I've taken enough of your time already, Thanks."

"Look Reece." He says suddenly, leaning forward and fixing me with his look. "I'm not going to tell on you. I thought what you did was stupid and irresponsible, but we're all stupid and irresponsible sometimes. You don't need that lesson hammered home any harder than you've already had it driven in, I'm sure. I know how it feels, in more ways than one. I'm the only one apart from Walt who knows about you. I'm going to keep that secret. You can trust me. Are you sure you want to be alone? You don't look too good with that bump on you. I can hang around if you want. Watch out for you or whatever. You don't need to worry. Do you want to borrow some clothes?"

"N-no, it's fine," I mumble. Inside, I feel dejected, weak and vulnerable. To top it all off, in my weakness I feel like I'm going to break down and cry if he keeps being this nice to me. I have to be on my own for a while to calm down.

"I'll get you home, then," he says, "Let me get my keys."

Paul helps me into his car. It's expensive and loud, and smells of leather, but I can't tell for sure what type of car it is. All I remember clearly is that he has a carpet in the passenger footwell which doesn't match the rest of the interior, and a sticker on the dashboard with the numbers 1.39.93. Probably a phone number or something. Trees and fields rush by the window in a blur, but I try to focus on my own paws, folded in my lap. I feel like such an idiot. Now I've made a fool of myself in front of this really cool racing driver guy. He's probably going to laugh and tell his buddies all about what I've told him.

Before I know it, we're pulling up to the university campus and I need to force myself to focus. I did actually tell him where I lived, right? Maybe he just guessed I was a student?

I think I remembered to thank him. Maybe I even gave him my number, I'm not sure. I think I limped up to my apartment, or maybe I was carried, I honestly couldn't say, because after I took a few painkillers and slumped out on my couch, everything went black again.

When I wake up, the sun has gone and the moon is out, and the pain in my head has subsided to a manageable level. I get up from the sofa to get some food from the fridge, but pain suddenly shoots through my foot. I cry out, and almost fall to my knees. My ankle is ablaze with a searing pain. But I haven't eaten all day, so I have to brave it. With tears in my eyes, I hop over to the kitchen to heat some leftover noodles. I'm not rich just because my parents pay my rent.

I check my door, just to be safe, while the noodles heat up. I must have locked it when I got back, but I can't even remember that. I bring my food to the couch where I dozed off earlier. My purse is there, but I've forgotten my shoes. I knew there was something off. I had them with me at Paul's, but I must've forgotten them there. I briefly consider just chalking them up as lost. But I'm not that concussed.

My phone is still in my purse, still locked, and still has the 911 number dialled and ready to hit call. I don't have Paul's number. How will I get back to his place? I only vaguely remember the trip back. I hope he calls back. I hear myself thinking those words and can't really fault myself for having that thought. I really want those shoes back sure. But he wasn't difficult with me at all, really. From what little I remember, he was a real gentleman, even when he knew about my disguise. I erase the police phone number and start going through my social media apps absently while I chew at my noodles. Their intense smells of spice and salt clears out the wolf scent from my snout. I try to tell myself that I've smelled quite enough wolf to be going along. After a while I feel the screen swimming in front of my eyes, and I can't focus on the text.

Before I close it, I notice a small slip of paper in the card holder in my phone case, it's wedged in next to my student ID. It has a number on it. A phone number. I have no idea when, but at some point, I think Paul left it there. I check the door again, but it's still locked. I'll try to call this number later. Not now. I don't want to seem desperate. Perhaps he'll notice the shoes and come back with the. I hope he doesn't. I don't want the fact that he knows where I live also become an intrusive thought alongside my fear of Walt.

I take another painkiller. The pain in my ankle soon feels dulled enough that I can get up and walk around the apartment normally, albeit slowly. I pour myself a bath, and a glass of wine, before I put some soft, mellow music on the phone speakers. I study my dress in the mirror before I take it off. It's full little white strands of fur. They're both mine and Paul's. I thank my lucky stars that Paul was the one who found me. But right now, I can't stand being in these clothes. They haven't felt right against my fur ever since I woke up in Paul's apartment. I hope Walt hasn't turned me off what is essentially my only hobby.

The bath does wonders for my leg; the throbbing goes down as soon as I get it soaked. I initially poured myself a glass of wine because I felt sorry for myself, but as I drink, it goes straight to my head, killing more pain than the tablets did. I pull the silk scarf off my head. It really is a genuine silk ascot. A white and gold patterned, formal type. Thick and wonderfully smooth. It looks expensive, or rather, looked, before it had blood all over it. I bring my paw up to a spot above my left ear, where I can feel the bump.

The bleeding has stopped and congealed into a nasty looking scab, and the fur around it is caked in dried blood. I wipe condensation from a little mirror which I keep next to my bathtub and inspect the damage properly.

My makeup has run, and there are lines underneath my eyes, which were probably there when I talked to Paul. That's just perfect. Great. Thankfully, he can't see me sitting here in the bath burying my muzzle in my paws from embarrassment. I don't even dare to think what sort of impression I made. Then there's the blood. It has run from my head and soaked my fur. Some drops have landed on my forehead, and some have dripped on my muzzle, and show very clearly against my black spots. I look like a zombie.

Poking at the bump is painful, but I need to get the blood out of my fur before it sticks, and I have to cut it out. I dab a piece of cloth in the bath water, and slowly pat at the wound until it's clean. It's a long process but thankfully the brownish red stains come away in the end.

I spend the rest of my bath reading more about Paul Courage on my phone, pouring more wine. The alcohol helps me keep my focus as I go through his short Wikipedia article, and several different local news outlets and some sport magazines. From what I can tell, there doesn't seem to be any barriers keeping him out of the professional leagues, as I recall Darren from the grandstands pointed out. He's apparently very talented. Why is he still racing for a local business owner, at local venues, in a low-ranking series? I can tell from his driving style on various YouTube clips that he really knows how to find speed in his car. His reactions are quick, his predictions are sharp and consistent, and he overtakes in such a way that he is practically impossible to counter. There's definitely something about his skill which reminds me more of how they drive in the higher echelons. Perhaps he could even be rookie material in Formula One?

I want to find out more about him, like I once wanted to find out about Walt. But I'm all too aware of how that went. I try to justify just forgetting about those shoes, throwing the phone number out, forgetting that I ever met Walt and Paul, and keep my head down. That would be the smart decision.

I don't have the energy for the regular process after my bath. Instead, I spread my towel out on the couch so that I can air dry in front of the TV. My apartment already smells of damp wood, and I can't be bothered to trail a towel over the pools of water I drip on the floor. It'll sort itself out. I turn to the YouTube app on my TV, and type in 'Paul Courage races' before I know what I'm doing. Okay, so maybe I'm not smart. I'll admit it, before anyone else says anything.

A selection of clips shows up. They are mostly from the same few accounts. There's the official account of the local newspaper, some random phone clips from the grandstands, and then there's this one video. It's a top ten list type of video about the most underrated drivers in the business. It's got one of those really shouty and enthusiastic hosts who demands you like and subscribe. Most of the names are unknown to me, but not the one on the top of the list. My head is spinning, the host is grating and straining my patience, and I can barely keep up with the narrative by the time I hear the wolf's name.

"Paul Courage, an Australian wolf, has been racing for his local team Whyllis Racing in private events for the past three years. He's displayed an unparalleled aptitude and is rarely beaten on track. Little is known of the elusive wolf, who generally stays out of the media spotlight, and turns down any attempts to contact him. Rumours have it that Paul Courage has been offered several contracts with prominent racing teams both nationally, and internationally. We failed to make contact with his agent, but there is surely many who have gotten through. He has not commented to the media why he's declined to move away from Whyllis Racing, but I'm sure Mr. Whyllis, the multi-millionaire team owner, is himself happy with the arrangements."

That's where the video ends. There aren't many mentions about Paul elsewhere. His Wikipedia page is short and incomplete, I can't find any mention of a manager, and the comments section of that video can only speculate, not offer any actual facts. He hasn't got any social media profiles, and the Whyllis Racing account on the common social media spaces are mainly concerned with the cars and tracks and haven't updated for half a year.

At around 10 pm, my phone rings. I jolt upright, and realise I've been sleeping, or daydreaming, whatever you call it. I've been away in my own little world. The sharp sound of the chime cuts through and pulls me back into reality, where my head is still sore, my ankle hurts, and my curiosity is insatiable. I check the display. It's mom. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my snout. I really don't want to talk to her now. This stuff with Paul and Walt is taking too much of my brain. But hanging up on mom is never a good idea.

"Hey mom, how are you?"

"Hi dear, how are you? School going alright?" She sounds cheerful. I rarely see my parents, but they call every now and then, and they pay my rent. I have to remind myself to not be grumpy with mom, even if I just want to be left alone tonight.

"School is going alright, yeah."

"You know exams are coming up soon. Have you prepared well?"

"Sure mom, they won't be a problem," I lie. "You don't have to remind me. I do go to this school, after all."

"Don't leave it for too long like last year," She chides. "Remember when you had to study for a week straight and missed your father's birthday,"

I still feel bad about it. He didn't say anything, but I'm sure he didn't take it as well as mom did. Sometimes it feels like he isn't quite ready for me to become independent, even when I've lived away from home for years already.

"I promise I won't, mom, I've got this," I placate. "It's post-modernism, there's practically no theory. You just write 'irony' on a paper and underline it a few times. It really is that simple,"

I know my mom won't stop worrying, but what can I do? I can only try to reassure them that I am confident about this subject. To tell the truth, I've not got a clue what to write about.

"I want you to take it seriously, Reece. This test will decide your future," She says finally, before changing the subject. "I called because your father's birthday is coming up and I'm not sure what to get him. I was hoping you could look around where you live and see if you see something that can interest him."

In the past, it has been easy to get him a present. What I usually do is: go into a liquor store, look at the scotch section, and then get the one with the most undressed lady on the front. Gift paper optional.

"We're not getting him booze," Mom interjects, before I can outline my plan. "I don't want more of that filth in our house!" My mother, ever the obstacle to simple tasks.

"Okay mom, I'll have a look. Do you know if he's mentioned anything?"

"He's does need a new pair of pants, and some warm mittens, his fur is getting so thin on his paws,"

I doubt dad ever said that, but okay. I'm going to look for something a bit more meaningful, to make up for my lapse last year.

"Sounds like something you could get him. I'll look around."

"Did you hear about Miller's son?" Mom breaks in suddenly. "He was in the paper last week."

"Mom, I don't really care what our neighbours-"

"He's started his own company you know. Hard work. That's all you need! That's what I've been saying to your father. I told them you could have done that too, it's all about how you apply yourself."

"Sure mom, I'll start a company based on my English degree, that's going to go well," I mumble sarcastically. It was them who insisted I go to university. Getting an inconvenient degree was my way of rebelling, I suppose. I often find myself regretting that choice. English, it turns out, is not easy.

"Don't use that tone please, we're only looking out for you, Reece"

"Yeah, mom, sorry, I know, thanks."

"But what sort of job will you get with that thing anyways?" I hear a voice from the background. Dad has overheard the conversation and chimes in. "I heard a lot of great stuff about the business school just up the road from the head office. They come out on top in the latest survey."

"Hi, dad" I monotone, "I'm not interested in business, and it's too late for that now."

"I'm just saying, you could have been in a well-paying job by now!"

I hear his footsteps on the other end of the line. He does his typical dad thing, where he scoffs and walks off to watch football or racing or whatever on the TV, but occasionally barks out remarks.

"Oh, and by the way," Mom says, "We'll be coming up for a short trip, to celebrate your father's birthday. It's the weekend after April 1st. You can take us somewhere nice. We'll pay for the restaurant, of course. Your father would appreciate it."

"I have to check my calendar, but I think I'm free all-day Friday and Saturday."

"That sounds wonderful dear. We'll be staying in a little hotel in the town, so you can come and visit whenever you feel like. I'll call you again when we're getting closer to the date, okay?"

"Sounds good mom, I'll look into some places for us to go."

My mother pauses for a moment, and then the inevitable question comes. It always comes. It's been coming every call for the last half a year or so.

"Are you seeing someone?" She asks. "I hear there are other dalmatians around in the area. I think there's an app you can use, these days. If you want to bring someone-"

"I'm not seeing someone, mom, I'll call you if I find someone nice, I mean someplace nice. Shit. I have to go; I'm not really feeling all too well tonight."

"Alright Reece, Love you!" She says in that sing-song way, to underline exactly how little she trusts me when I say that.

"Yeah mom, love you too." I say and hang up.

Every. Damn. Time. With this. It's been going on since my mother called during a one-night stand, and I pressed the wrong button. It was only for a few seconds, but I had this really loud fox in bed with me. Afterwards, she called back and started asking questions. I told her it was nobody. Thankfully she couldn't tell that it was a guy from the pitch of his voice. Ever since then, it's been relentless. But it's also a constant background thing, really. Not something I have to worry about. It's never more or less insistent, always the same. Almost comforting, in a way. I'd worry if she suddenly stopped asking. She'll find out eventually. When? That's another question, but by then, I'll be somewhere else. I don't know. Working with something language related, or perhaps training as a journalist, if I can get over what happened last night. Whatever I'll be doing, I won't have to worry about what she thinks about me being gay. For now, I only have to think about dad's birthday.

My father was born April 1st, and that never stops being funny to him. I have long since grown tired of making his birthday presents April fools jokes. I honestly just want us to connect better. I don't want him to feel like he's lost a son, just because I'm independent and grown up. I missed out on a lot of those father-son moments during my rebellious phase after high school. There were the rare occasions when we'd watch the races together. I've come to realise that I miss those times, before I went to university. Before I moved out. Before I came to terms with who I was and saw my parents in a new light. Before all the exes I left in my wake, each one taking a little piece of my innocence away, as I tried to figure out relationships on my own. Back when I was just little Reece. The only child from the only dalmatian family in Felix Grove. Whenever I didn't keep to myself, or hang around with my few friends, I'd spend time with dad. The only other guy in the world I felt understood me. Understood me on a deeper level than just personal. Someone who understood what it was like being different and alone. Turns out, I was more different than he probably imagined. If I could reconnect with him like those times, while still being true to myself and who I am now, then I'm sure I'd have the perfect present for him. But I have no idea what that sentiment entails. And I can already feel my emotions starting to get the better of me. I might be rested and full of wine, but I'm still as susceptible to breaking down as I felt when I first woke up in Paul's apartment. I slam the rest of the wine down and try to get some more sleep.