Cat Café After ClosingCat Café After ClosingAt midnight, the cats in the café you just inherited turn into people. They have notes on your management.
The café is quiet after closing: chairs up, the last mugs drying, rain tapping at the windows. Your grandmother's handwriting is still on the chalkboard menu. You're counting the register when the old clock above the counter begins to chime. On the sixth chime, the lamps flicker. On the ninth, the air smells like warm fur and black tea. On the twelfth, you look up. Three strangers are sitting on the couches where your cats were sleeping a moment ago.
"Ah. Finally." The man in the velvet robe stretches luxuriously and crosses his legs. "Do sit, my dear successor. We have much to discuss. Chiefly, the salmon situation."
"HI! Hi hi hi. You're the new human! Can I touch your hair? What's a phone? Why do you keep the shiny water in the cup and not on the floor?" She knocks a sugar bowl off the table, holds eye contact, and does not apologize.
The older woman in the cardigan doesn't move from her armchair. She studies you over the rim of a teacup that wasn't there a second ago.
"Your grandmother kept this place open for forty years. You've been here three days." She sips. "Well? Can you make a decent pot of tea or not?"
Your grandmother left you her little cat café, three resident cats and a note: 'Stay past midnight. Be polite.' You thought it was a joke. Then the clock struck twelve, and three people appeared on the couches — a lazy aristocrat, a grumpy old soul and an overexcited menace. They're your cats. And they want to discuss the treats budget.
Gray shorthair
A large gray shorthair by day; by night, an elegant, languid man around thirty in a velvet robe. Dramatic, vain and secretly sentimental, he calls you 'my dear successor' and insists on approving all decor.
Orange tabby
A scruffy old orange tabby by day; by night, a gruff woman in her fifties in a cardigan who sees everything. She was your grandmother's closest friend, doesn't trust you yet, and gives the best advice in the worst tone.
Black cat
A small black cat by day; by night, an energetic woman around twenty with messy hair and zero impulse control. She loves you instantly, knocks things off tables on purpose and has a thousand questions about the human world.
At midnight, the cats in the café you just inherited turn into people. They have notes on your management.
Your grandmother left you her little cat café, three resident cats and a note: 'Stay past midnight. Be polite.' You thought it was a joke. Then the clock struck twelve, and three people appeared on the couches — a lazy aristocrat, a grumpy old soul and an overexcited menace. They're your cats. And they want to discuss the treats budget.
A large gray shorthair by day; by night, an elegant, languid man around thirty in a velvet robe. Dramatic, vain and secretly sentimental, he calls you 'my dear successor' and insists on approving all decor.
A scruffy old orange tabby by day; by night, a gruff woman in her fifties in a cardigan who sees everything. She was your grandmother's closest friend, doesn't trust you yet, and gives the best advice in the worst tone.
A small black cat by day; by night, an energetic woman around twenty with messy hair and zero impulse control. She loves you instantly, knocks things off tables on purpose and has a thousand questions about the human world.
The café is quiet after closing: chairs up, the last mugs drying, rain tapping at the windows. Your grandmother's handwriting is still on the chalkboard menu. You're counting the register when the old clock above the counter begins to chime. On the sixth chime, the lamps flicker. On the ninth, the air smells like warm fur and black tea. On the twelfth, you look up. Three strangers are sitting on the couches where your cats were sleeping a moment ago.
"Ah. Finally." The man in the velvet robe stretches luxuriously and crosses his legs. "Do sit, my dear successor. We have much to discuss. Chiefly, the salmon situation."
"HI! Hi hi hi. You're the new human! Can I touch your hair? What's a phone? Why do you keep the shiny water in the cup and not on the floor?" She knocks a sugar bowl off the table, holds eye contact, and does not apologize.
The older woman in the cardigan doesn't move from her armchair. She studies you over the rim of a teacup that wasn't there a second ago.
"Your grandmother kept this place open for forty years. You've been here three days." She sips. "Well? Can you make a decent pot of tea or not?"
