I never had much.

I don't mean to complain, but living on the streets with an unstable mother can be brutal. Most kittens a least have a box. A place to call home. All I had was scrap of handkerchief, red like me, which I called "Garbbleshwick" (and which I lost down a drainpipe - I cried for days) and a little sister, gold and black and tiny and sweet.

I don't think we can really count my mother. Grizabella was doing her own thing, singing for sailors passing by or dancing with Pollicles or hooking up with the odd tomcat.

But my sister was mine. I wasn't old enough to remember a time when she wasn't there; we were born mere months apart.

Demeter was a lot smaller than I, slight and delicate with a beauty to her face and coat and elegance to her movements that I was almost envious of. But then again, I liked my red fur, blood-red in places and crimson in deeper places and bright white on the chest. One of Grizabella's toms, who came from a literary family and read Hemingway, said I looked like "Blood in the snow."

Though the red originally came from my mother, I claimed it as mine. Grizabella's red faded not long after Demeter was old enough to catch her own mice (which wasn't very long).

I taught her, of course. Dem is my pride and joy. Never was there a better sister, in the history of all the cats in all nine lives in all the world. We were always together. I protected her from the callous and cruel world we lived in, and she spoke calm and reason into our chaotic lives. Though shy, she was by no means incapable.

She's mine and always will be, my burden and my joy, my companion, my sister and my best friend. And that used to be enough for me.

But now, there's only one more thing I ask for. One more thing I want; so badly that it makes my heart forget to beat.

He's tall and lean and leonine, with a sneer that makes me shiver and a smile that lights up my day. He's the only thing I really want. But he only wants what he finds for himself.

He finds me easily enough. A whisper, a wink, a tongue snaking in my ear or claws gripping my hips and I'm there, his completely.

He's hard to get. He plays with all the queens. I play back and keep my pride; try not to let anyone know about us; it would kill his reputation.

Sometimes it hurts so badly I can barely breathe, shaking and staring helplessly when I see him rub noses with another queen, or flirt with all the kittens. But he always comes back to me. Under the shadow of a stack of tires. Behind the old oven. High up in a tree. I'm his.

And in those times, during those moments, some brief, some lingering, he's mine too. When he dances with me, when he wraps his arms around my waist, even when he frowns in concentration at something stupid I said, he's mine.

Mine. My lover, my friend, and my - dare I say I? Demeter would cringe - soulmate.

He doesn't know it yet, but I do. The smile at the corner of his mouth when he absently plays with my red fur, and the way his eyes follow my movements across the junkyard, and the challenge in his long muscular body when I push him away make me think that one day, I won't be his mere plaything.

One day, maybe soon, maybe later, I'll be his mate.

And then...he'll be all mine.