Perfection

Beethoven's soft lines of music ran through the background, a perfection only matched by the soft lines of my companion. Who ever notes Beethoven as the "Composer with the Loud and Banging music" is really missing out. Even the 5th Symphony--the one with the memorable "! ! ! !----" theme--breaks into a beautifully gentle interlude.

The flickering green, and sometimes red, lights--dancing in accord with the music--don't provide much by the way of illumination, but my mind is quick to fill in Trill's features. Her Black eyes--ringed in gold, the edges of her ears poking through the golden strands of hair, all the way down to each perfect strand thereof.

I sought warmth, burying my face in the thick fur of her shoulder. She had been a friend for more of my life than I can remember. Photographs my parents proudly keep show us hand in hand at my forth birthday. History, however, is of no importance now, only collecting as much as the precious warmth she holds is.

A deep breath draws in her sweet scent; I nuzzle her closer trying to gather more, until I'm awkwardly pushed up against her. I still am too far apart though. Running my hand down her tail--careful of the stitches still there from a bad gash--I drape it loosely around myself.

I don't know when I fell asleep, only Beethoven continued to mark the time, and a long-dead musician can hardly compete with soft, warm fur. For all I know, the perfection of the moment lasted through the night; though the next morning's reality ruined it, as I awoke curled up next to my feline.

Maybe, next year, I'll find another one. Perfect plushies are hard to find.