Not So Sexy Saxophone

The same street performer, if he could be called that, had been outside of her teashop for days and the dragoness had had enough. From his post across the street the exceedingly tall oriental man would do three things when she showed up for her daily cup of lavender tea. Drink form a none to discreetly paper bag disguised liquor bottle, play his saxophone in a way that made her feel sympathy for it, and stare at her through the shop window. His dark eyes seemed all too aware for those a man who drank as much as he was. He stared at her, studied her, as if a list of her misdoings had unfurled itself above her head. The skin of his forehead bunched over the brood of his nose as he squinted at her. Her clawed fist balled dangerously. She wasn’t a test subject, a wild animal, or naked . Their for he should have no reason to stare at her.

There was a part of her, however small, that wished to stalk across the street and burry her fist in his face. Instead she concentrated on finishing her tea. There was not enough milk in it and the slight burnt feeling on the top of her tongue was making her experience less than pleasurable. She set the cup down and brought her knees to her chest and rested her forehead against them.

Work had always been cause for stress but recently it was becoming more so. In nineteen years, sick or not, she had not had a day off once. But the day after Mataow was killed the counsel had asked that she take a mental health day. Since then she was aloud to come back to the office but was never called to action. She took a deep breath and retrieved the cup from the table. Taking a deep draught she frowned into the emptiness left behind.

She set the cup down once more and made her way to the door. The woman behind the counter smiled and waved her goodbye. The dragoness returned her gesture with a warm grin and an inclination of her head.

If she looked at the man across the street she would attack him, so she focused on the ground as she walked past. The dissonant wail his saxophone produced stopped abruptly. Her gut coiled into itself.

“ Ya know.” The inebriated mans voice wavered as he spoke. “My favorite color is purple.”

She scowled and raised her head to look at him.

“ What do you mean by that?”

He grinned roguishly.

“ You can dress like a man all you want……….but you still have a fantastic ass.”

Her claws dug into her palms as she stormed off. It was all she could do to save his life.

“ So I’ll see you tomorrow then? Right sweet cheeks?”

She whipped around, her cat like eyes trying their best to burn holes in him. He remained apparently unfazed, though she did notice that the blood had drained from his face. It took all she had not charge him, or at least slap him across the face. She shook her head and turned back around. If she wanted to bide her time to plan an escape she could not bludgeon him to death. She was certain that during her ten minute walk home she had to convince her self forty times that killing him would not make her happy.

As she opened the door to the apartment she smiled weakly to herself.

“ Well…I’m proud of you.” She huffed to herself.

Shutting the door behind her she surveyed the room. It was clean for the first time in a while. This was due to her day off…she had literally had nothing better to do. The dragon possessed no furniture that would allude to her having guests over. One bed, a bedside table, and a fur covered beanbag chare.

The only reason she had the beanbag chare was that it had been given to her by her former trainer. Mataow may have been a self-absorbed prick, but, in her time training with him they had lived together and he had at times been kind to her… in his own way. He had a single bed. She was not aloud in it. He had purchased the beanbag chare so that she did not have to sleep directly on the floor. She was small enough at the time for it to have been an acquit bed. She sauntered across the room and collapsed into it running her fingers over the old matted fuzz. It was the first and only gift she had ever received.

She stared across the room at the space her bed sheltered from anyone who stood in the doorway. It housed a backpack full of cloths, money, and a box of granola bars. If she needed to leave it would make the task all the easier. Shutting her eyes she attempted to ignore its existence for the moment.

The wine of a tortured saxophone ripped a hole in her silent contemplation. She jumped to her feet and went to her window. The street performer was just across the street. She slammed her fists on the windowsill.

“ Oh, for fuck’s sake!!!!!”