She imagined herself most properly as Meowrice, really. Not that she wasn't pretty enough to be Mewsette, the heroine, or any of the other sleek, soft felines haunting the streets of Paris, but she simply wasn't soft enough. And, of course, there was the fact that he fit the character so much more fully.
The naivete and blind hope hidden beneath a layer of arrogance and confidence was too obvious a likeness, but if she ever were to tell him, she knew he would turn away, tail in the air, and refuse to speak to her until the comment was pushed aside.
Granted, she was not quite likely to attempt packaging him up to send off as a mail-order bride (though she idly wondered what price he might fetch)... but she was using him for her own needs all the same.
It wasn't that she didn't care about him. She just cared more about herself and things were much better that way. It was like Eve biting into the apple - nothing was really wrong until she selflessly offered the fruit to Adam, and they together realized their state of affairs. If she had kept the dream and the knowledge to herself, it may have gone forever unnoticed.
It took two.
It always takes two for one to get hurt.
He had his own female Jean-Tom too. She didn't know much about the girl - had only seen her briefly once or twice while out and had had to deduct her identity in the first place - but she seemed genuine enough. Almost genuine enough to make her feel guilty for her mastery at what she was doing. But she seemed genuine too, outside of her inner workings. It didn't mean she was.
Not that any of it mattered. It was a game.
The traditional dog and cat and mouse.
Fuck, She thought, taking a drag of her cigarette and turning off the television. I need to stop watching kids movies.
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