Tiffany Girl by Deeanne Gist

stretched across a broad back. Crisscrossing black suspenders trapped parts of his shirt and caused it to wrinkle, then drew the eye down to brown trousers hugging a trim waist. Muscular thighs strained the fabric encasing them.
    The moisture in the air made her hair wilt, but made his short blond curls more wavy. At his feet, a gray, pathetic-looking cat purred as he stroked its matted, wet fur. She’d often wondered why he kept his window cracked, even on the coldest of days. Well, now she knew. He whispered to it, then chuckled as it rolled onto its back seeking a tummy rub.
    A dull green blanket had been thrown over his pillow in a man’s way of making the bed. No curtains hung on his window, no ornaments graced his bedside table. She’d never seen such a sparse, barren room, totally devoid of personal mementos and pictures.
    Only his desk gave a peek into the man he was, but even that held a minimal amount, and what was there was kept in an orderly manner. His papers were neatly stacked, his oil lamp flickered, his pen protruded from its stand, his inkwell was tightly capped. So much for having work to do. Clearly, that had been an excuse to escape from their dinner party.
    After his departure, the boarders had been more taken by the number of words he’d spoken than the actual topic of his discourse. According to them, he’d said more in those few minutes than in the entire year he’d lived there. For her, however, it was the subject matter and the passionate delivery that impressed her. She’d read his articles, had known the women’s movement concerned him. What she hadn’t realized was the degree to which it did.
    Her father would certainly like him. They’d find much in common if they were to ever meet. But with the way her father felt about her being here, the chances of that were slim. Still, it had been illuminating to hear Mr. Wilder voice what Papa had not—or perhaps could not. She’d sort of stumbled into being a New Woman because of circumstances. She wasn’t a member of any women’s association. She hadn’t attended any women’s rallies or lectures. She merely wanted to be paid for her labor so she could go to art school. She had a hard time seeing how that was going to lead to the deterioration of the entire human race.
    Even so, despite his speech, her game had been a wonderful success. Everyone stayed at the table, visiting, until Mrs. Klausmeyer finally kicked them out. They agreed to adjourn to the parlor, but Flossie wanted everyone in the family to join them. So, she’d excused herself for a moment to come and fetch Mr. Wilder.
    Lifting her hand, she tapped on his door.
    He looked over his shoulder, then slowly straightened his spine.
    “Don’t get up,” she said. “I just came to check on you.”
    He glanced at his jacket, which had been draped on the back of his desk chair, and started to rise.
    “Don’t get up,” she said again, then pointed to the cat. “I see you have a friend.”
    He sank back down. “It’s raining.”
    “Actually, I think it’s snowing now.”
    He glanced at the window. “No, I mean, the cat always comes when it’s raining . . . or snowing.”
    “Does he?”
    “She. It’s a she. And, yes, but Mrs. Klausmeyer wouldn’t like it.”
    “I won’t tell.”
    He studied her, his eyes hidden, for the lantern light on the desk didn’t reach quite that far.
    “I don’t let her on the bed,” he said. “I make her a little pallet on the floor. She doesn’t bother anybody. Never cries. Just purrs.”
    Crossing her arms, Flossie propped herself against the doorframe. “What’s her name?”
    “I don’t know.” Teasing the cat, he touched its nose, paws, and ears in quick succession while it swiped at him.
    Why hadn’t he named it? she wondered. Instead of asking, she simply offered him an invitation. “Everyone’s in the parlor. We’re going to play The Board Game of Old Maid. I found it on one of Mrs. Klausmeyer’s shelves.”
    Instead