Christie will stay

Christie: "Alright, love. I'll keep the lizards at bay."

Christie sets herself down beside you. It's been so long since you've had the comfort of sleeping next to someone. You're in Heaven.

The next morning starts real slow. Your head hums and buzzes, and the blood in your veins throbs uncomfortably. That glass of water Christie fixed you was a figurative drop in an ocean of booze.

Last night you went way overboard. If you keep this up until your thirties you'll need a lot more than beauty sleeps to get anymore modeling jobs. Also **** is really bad for feline humans. Too much of it can even kill you, you've heard...

Yeah that is it. You're off the sauce from here on out. You don't wanna get used to progressively worsening hangovers only to realize you're basically an alcoholic by thirty-five. Not. A. Drop.

Sophie: "(Fuuuuuck me...)"

Christie: "Unh... what'd you say?"

Sophie: "I saaaid: FUUU-UUUU-UUCK ME!"

Christie: "Girl I just might... you're so hot I wouldn't even mind..."

Maybe not just yet. Need to do something about this blazing nuclear inferno of a headache first.

Sophie: "Whoaa, buy a girl a drink first, hehe-... Aw nuts, on second thought no. Breakfast is what we need."

You try prying yourself up from the bed, but Christie gently but firmly settles your hungover ass back under the cover. Damn, she really must be craving some of your luscious thighs on her face.

Breakfast is an egg and salmon sandwich with some cantaloupe and spinach leaves thrown in for good measure. You tuck in greedily, downing most of the sandwich in a few moments.

Christie: "You've got a real hackjob pantry, you know. Don't you eat any bread, or milk or bacon?"

Sophie: "Uhh... No, I could get liver damage from those. In case you didn't realize, I'm a catgirl?"

Christie: "Oh right, of course. I was just under the impression that you didn't care too much, since you drink beer, heh..."

Sophie: "Yeah... about that, I'm probs not gonna get sauced again. Ever. I've been stretching my luck thin as it is. Booze for a 20-year old catgirl is almost as damaging as for a sixty-year old alcoholic human."

Christie's expression turns sullen, and she sits down at your bedside to rest a warm, soft hand of your cold forehead.

Christie: "Aw you poor baby! Who hurt you...?"

Sophie: "Whaddya mean? Uh, like why do I drink? I mean... did drink?"

Christie: "Mmhm."

The eyes in your head roll back from the hangover-induced mental anguish of trying to come up with the answer for Christie's question.

Sophie: "Uhhhhhhhhh... Prolly I just wanted to meet people, so I went to bars. But I never really 'got' humans, you feelin'? They seemed really alien to me, even though the species' are closely related enough to produce offspring. Or maybe it was dating. I never got the idea behind dating."

Christie: "A-ha."

Sophie: "I... I know that I'm super, super hot. Everyone who sees me tells me that, like that's their first reaction. That's why magazines pay me inordinate amounts to prance scantily clad in front of a camera. So you can sorta imagine how insecure I must've felt when I *sigh*... just didn't feel like there was any girlfriend material in me."

Christie: "Why?"

Sophie: "I think I'm realizing it now. Like just last night, it was when I realized it. I like ladies."

Christie: "Oh..."

Sophie: "It's this, see. I was always vying for men. But men sort of felt too... masculine. As a feline human I'm stronger than people twice my size, so stuff like muscles and testosterone never really impressed me. I was a lot more impressed by how... just how much more emotionally balanced women seemed to be. And... r-rp-...pretty. Seeing you, so lively, bubbly and kind... to me... I fell in love yesterday."

Christie brings her hands to her chest, and inhales sharply, as if a weight was lifted from her.

Christie: "Omigosh omigosh you funny-headed gay sexbomb, yes! Yes! I love you too!"

Her voice is even more obnoxiously high-pitched than normal, and practically ear-shredding to your ****-sentece of a headache. But seeing her happy, you wouldn't mind going stone deaf.

Then again, seeing Christie take off her tightly hugging spaghetti strap shirt negates at least half of your woozyness. Fumbling for the edges of your loose clothing confusedly, you try to undress. But in your state of sopor, Christie makes it before you and tears off your thongs.