FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The line never gets either longer or shorter, with the exception of brief lulls that allow the staff a chance to straighten up the place a bit. I know just about all of the staff, on most of the shifts, even when they juggle their schedules around. They know my preferences, my refill needs, my favorite spot to sit (although I don't always get it). I'm usually in one corner or another, though, and I try to be as unobtrusive as possible. No one notices me, for the most part. I'm really quite unnoticeable. Gray of fur and demeanor, dull of clothing and conversation, slight of build, shadowy of nature.

All types go through here, at one time or another. Take this lot, as a for-instance. Front to back... A five thousand dollar suit embarrassed by the pug inside it who couldn't have understood what style was if he couldn't afford to pay for it, who tips two bits for a six-dollar cup of espresso, and nothing at all for a refill. A backpack crammed full of books, spectacles perched above studious eyes, a too-thin kinkajou focused too closely on a phone that he fears might be smarter than he is, at least in some areas of his life. A harried, conveniently-dressed female otter of early middle years who keeps checking a watch, itself a quaint affectation in a modern world where everything including time is on one's phone; each glance affords no appreciable difference from the one before it, though worried eyes hope otherwise, perhaps anxious about picking up the pups from school on time, or perhaps worried about her sexually ravenous rendezvous with the young lioness that her male mate had not yet discovered. A bank teller, female meerkat, faking being worried about her small size and perfectly-counted till, her small black eyes revealing nothing about her Alpha nature and the exotic leather-and-chains accented equipment carefully concealed in a self-made hidey-hole of her one-bedroom apartment (though those alterations might cost her the deposit when she moves). An argali computer systems specialist visiting from his native central Asian home, careful of his huge, curved horns in the relatively small space, wondering how he's going to survive another few months in the cubicle they've stuffed him in (despite his contact specifying an office), and casting occasional, conflicting thoughts regarding the wisdom of taking a lover unlikely to return with him upon completing his work here and the unquestionably thrilling discoveries afforded him by the young, spritely, lithe ferret whose petite paws and disproportionate endowment brought forth the wonder of small things coming with big packages.

Three of the five orders will be placed with the rapid-fire efficiency of those who are comfortable with ordering inside their comfort zone; ironically, perhaps, the two females will take a few moments to decide -- the otter from limited experience with the fine varieties of the roasted bean, the meerkat in order to reinforce her carefully calculated mask of delicate frailty. None will notice me, as perhaps it should be. I notice enough for all of us. Too much.

One of the staff steps out to clean up a bit, although there's not too much to do. Few have stayed behind today, pausing in whatever makes up their day to enjoy a quiet moment with a book, or a companion, or their own thoughts. For many, their own thoughts are the most ubiquitous and least welcome companions; for others, it's all that they know, welcome or not.

The zebra, exotic enough even without the snow-white coat broken by brightly-colored rainbow stripes, is the member of staff I know best, quick, efficient, friendly. A fine contrast he would be to me, my fur and my mood the color of ashes, my corner dark enough for even spiders to think a touch of sun to be preferable. He never forgets the extra shot of white chocolate in my mocha, even when I neglect to ask for it. The time I specifically told him not to bother, he complied, and it just wasn't as good to me; the time after, he asked, I ordered, and it's not changed since. I have a few other favorites, depending on my mood, and I can order them quickly; he knows my formulae for those also, and although I melt into the walls after being served, he always greets me with a smile. Perhaps what we all search for is a place where everybody knows your brew.

This particular purveyor of flavored coffees and teas is something of an anomaly, existing as it does in the periphery of so many walks of life. It has modern and classic attributes, some ferns and some plastic flowers, dark booths and bright tables, recessed lights and fluorescents, a sense of urgency amid the relaxed atmosphere. It's as if it were built not knowing what it wanted to be when it grew up. One of the things I like about it is the built-in shelves of books and games available for the customers' pleasure. There's no telling what might be found there, although there's usually something that someone finds, eventually, that turns out to be what they were supposed to find. Somewhere on the topmost shelf, almost in the rafters (yes, there are those, too, some white metal, some plain wood), a young male by the name of Raffe, whose dark-velveted ossicones came close to brushing said rafters, found what might best be described as a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. Bringing it down from the shelf, finding no dust on the shelf or the book, he sat to read for a time, then appeared to forget about time, and then time went on and forgot about him as well. I seem to remember something about him working with particle acceleration projects, or perhaps I'm thinking of someone else.

The games, like the books, range across many tastes and levels of difficulty. Sometimes, customers bring their own to share, but not all games are meant to be played by two or more at once; there is, on the shelves here at least one chess board on a swivel for a lone intellectual to work on solitaire problems. There are decks of ordinary cards and decks of extraordinary cards, some recognizable 52-card decks, some made for other games. Diversions from old to new, traditional to avant garde, luck-based to strategy-based, knowledge to trivia... somewhere in those shelves, something could be found to interest customers who wished to find some friendly competition, or even to discover a new friendship, or perhaps a new rivalry if they preferred it. It's said that love makes the world go 'round, but making someone else's tail bristle can have its compensations as well.

With the flow of customers at a low ebb, I took the opportunity to indulge in a favorite pastime suggested by my mentor. I unearthed the Scrabble game from its lowly strata and brought it to an empty table not too far from my own encampment. I set up the board and rummaged through the tiles to match the five random words that my portable device selected for me. I made the best crossword I could out of it, then retired to my corner again, to do what I do best: Wait, watch, listen.

The well-dressed, well-made raccoon had ordered an alleged beverage made with five espresso shots and seven of caramel. It might well have accounted for the exceptional brightness in the otherwise black eyes set deep into his jet-black mask. He paused at the table, gazed at the board and considered. It wasn't long before a young cheetah, lean, hard, denim shorts, athletic shirt, blue bandana about his throat, padded silently to the table, likewise considering. The raccoon looked up to acknowledge the new arrival, who asked softly, "Your game?"

"Not at all. Just found it here." The 'coon spoke calmly, despite having enough caffeine in his system to be able to vibrate at a heretofore unknown frequency. He read from the board. "Tent; frown; aspirin; crown; scaffold."

"Uneasy lies the head," the feline smiled, as if expecting to shock his sole audience member by spouting a quote unrelated to his garb. "I suppose aspirin would be a better cure for a headache than a scaffold would be."

"The last royal headache His Majesty would ever have. Should try bean juice. If you're going to kill or cure, you might as well like the flavor of it." The raccoon saluted the cheetah with his cup. "Skoal."

"L'chiam." The toast returned, the young athlete smiled and sipped his own brew. He swapped the cup to his other forepaw, offering the first, introducing. "Kenton."

"Javier," the raccoon returned, shaking the proffered paw. Releasing, he gestured to the board. "Do you play?"

"Poorly, on a game board." The cheetah offered a smile with just the right amount of slyness to it. The raccoon's smile indicated tacit acknowledgement of the flirtation, and the athlete shifted his weight from hindpaw to hindpaw, smoothly, easily. "I'm much more physical in my pursuits."

"So it would seem." Javier eyed his newfound friend with open appreciation, the buzz from the caffeine no doubt being attributed now to the stimulation born of the attraction being forged. The word "tent" on the board might not refer merely to camping gear, if things progressed the way he--

My field of vision was interrupted by a large, solid figure wearing_hakama_ and an open leather vest, both of a black that seemed less a color and more an absorption of light. The fur of the lean white tiger lay thick and lush, interrupted only by the intense azure striping across his arms, face, and tail, saturated on his ears, dipped on the hanging ends of his long white headfur. His unblinking eyes, a penetrating steel blue, held my own as he sat down across from me without waiting for an invitation. He breathed evenly, his tail still, his forepaws folded on the plastic-topped table in front of me. Neither of us spoke for a long time, and I reviewed everything that I knew about the feline who now sat before me. That process took only a fraction of the time that we were silent; he never did tell me much, even at the best of times. I just stayed quiet for good measure, to see if I could outlast him. I hadn't before, but there was always a first time.

Or not.

"You blocked my view."

"Doesn't matter. They're gone."

Courteously, he leaned enough to one side for me to realize that the raccoon and cheetah had indeed vanished into whatever awaited them beyond my perceptions. Returning to his original position, the tiger continued to watch me dispassionately, neither threatening nor welcoming. His body language was equally impossible to decipher, as it always was; apart from breathing, he was more or less a statue.

"Why are you here, Zenzero?"

"Are you so far removed from the world as to forget small talk?"

"I didn't think you cared for it."

"How little you know about me."

"All too true."

"And you resent me for it."

I was wise enough to keep my tongue behind my teeth, although it was a near thing. In many ways, I really did resent him. I also returned to him, returned him to me, time and again, because he was usually right. Well, perhaps "right" is the wrong word. More like correct. The proper choice. The necessary one. The choice that I needed more often than not.

"Okay, maybe I do resent you. Does that count as small talk?"

The lips curved up slightly, as much of a smirk as he'd allow the likes of me to see on his muzzle. "Social graces need not apply. Very well, then. Let's talk about what's bothering you."

"Why don't we talk about what's bothering you? Isn't that what you really want?"

"I know that movie as well as you do, for obvious reasons. You're retreating into known dialog again, Grigio. Why must you quote when you can create?"

"That's what I was doing before you arrived."

"You were sinking into unrequited lust, is what you were doing." The long forelock covered one eye, the other gazed at me, still unblinking, the set of his head turned just enough to be accusatory. "Have I left you with so little?"

"Why would you ask, when you already know the answer?"

If I scored a hit, he made no sign of it. He looked around in a leisurely manner, appraising, assessing the scene around us, taking in the sights, sounds, scents.

"An interesting ambience," he observed, not a drop of sarcasm or hint of deprecation in his voice. "What's the name of this place?"

I temporized. "I've been here so often that I've forgotten."

"What sort of place is it?"

"I call the style Eclectic Coffee House."

"Come up with it yourself?"

"This can't be the only one." I shifted in my padded bench seat, that same tear in the plastic not a dozen centimeters from my thigh, leaning back against the equally thinly-padded back of the open-facing booth. "The tradition must go back at least to the Beats, I would think. Just more flavors than before. And a lack of a stage on which to perform. The customers are different, too, I suppose, and not just due to years."

"Perhaps." Zenzero considered. "Who do you see here?"

"Staff, clientele, whoever you haven't managed to frighten off with your presence."

"Why would I frighten them?"

"A leaned, muscled young tiger in what could be called 'samurai pants' and a leather jacket the pride of any biker or miscreant in the vicinity. In these troubled times, you could be considered dangerous."

"And not... Kenton, I think that the cheetah's name? Are we so dangerous, we of the Panthera genus, that genus Acinonyx are considered tame? Would you wish your sibling chased by one, much less to marry one?"

I felt my gaze harden into flint that would have matched the ashy gray of my fur. The tiger was unaffected. "That is beneath you."

"Merely trying to descend to your level, Grigio. You seem to be plumbing the depths today, so I thought I'd risk my pristine fur in your sewers.

"I make the assumption that you know whatever it is that you're talking about, as I clearly do not."

"You didn't answer my question. Who do you see here?"

I broke my gaze with him as if cracking a whip, snapping off the connection as best I could. Looking around the place, I could see no one at all for a moment, which was unusual at the very least. I could hear something going on behind the counter, although I couldn't spot anyone there. I heard a voice off in the distance, belonging I thought to Quixos, the brightly-striped zebra I'd gotten to know during my time here. A good male who made the mistake of falling in love with his best friend, he had taken a good ten years finally to marry the helium-heeled 'roo, and he now spent his days brewing concoctions for strangers and his nights wondering where his husband had gotten off to yet again, leaving the zebra home alone to pine and sigh, still his family's pride at having such a long-lasting relationship that was (unknown to them) without any joy beyond shared incomes and the occasional smile dropped when passing through the hall of the house from which they could not afford to go their separate ways.

"Quixos," I said, as the zebra stepped from the wings of the back storage room to appear behind the counter again.

"Interesting name. A form of cinnamon flower; it's warm scent is said to be relaxing. Unusual, for one purveying liquid stimulants."

"Also the name of an inquisitor who purged chaos. That would fit with coffee, don't you think?"

The tiger nodded his head as a gesture of granting the point. "And his husband?"

"Lysander? An import from the land of Oz, perhaps in more than one way."

"And what does he do?"

"Apart from attempt to bed every male is a half-dozen counties?"

"A rake, is he?"

"A new broom sweeps clean, but an old rake is more fun."

"Not for the zebra."

I shrugged. "A wittol is one to be content."

"Why isn't he, then?"

"Who says he isn't?"

"Didn't you say that he pines and sighs his nights away?"

"Perhaps, but..." I stopped short, my fur shifting suddenly. Had I been thinking out loud? I didn't think so, but I've been called a mumbling dodderer at the best of times. I looked carefully at the tiger across the table from me, wondering just how much I might have said, or perhaps merely how much he might have heard.

"Who else is here?"

"Quieter than before," I murmured, considering. My cup was nearly empty. Did I need more caffeine, or less? More stimulant, or less? "It comes in waves throughout the day."

"What about earlier?"

"Busier."

Zenzero paused, again nodding. "An expensive suit, a college student, a distracted dam, a quaint dominatrix... oh, and the argali, that was quite creative on your part. The raccoon, the cheetah, the zebra... All save two with secrets of the heart, desires of the body and spirit, all unsure if they will, or even can, get what they most wish for. Studies in the daily grind of accomplishing the mundane without the possibility of rewards to make it worthwhile."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, forepaws tucked underneath his chin, his eyes holding mine securely. "How am I doing?"

* * * * * * * * * *

"Too damned well," I said, sighing. I exited from the word processor and gently rubbed my eyes with an exhaustion I hadn't felt in some time. It was busy being a particularly rotten week, and since it was only half over, I fully expected it to do its dead-level worst before Friday, or perhaps on the day itself, just so that it could show me who was boss around here. In terms of what had happened to other people around the globe in the past month or so, I suppose that I had it pretty easy. The usual aches and pains; the various bits of difficulty brought on by age and/or poverty; the projects that I keep trying to make happen and that are delayed, blocked, or outright destroyed with the godsdamned capricious will of the fates; the stories that I tell myself about myself to myself, since I'm not always sure that anyone else is listening...

"I'm listening."

"Of course you are. You're a picture that I have on my computer screen. I even changed your name so that the artist wouldn't think I was stealing her character outright."

"She doesn't know me."

"She doesn't know the you that I brought back to me, to try to get me through the week."

"Same thing."

"Debatable."

"Practical."

I had to snort at that one. "What's so practical about dreaming of what I'll never have?"

"Better than living the nightmare of believing that you'll never have what you need."

That shut me up for a minute, and as anyone who knows me will reliably tell you, there are times when I need to be given a STFU moment or fifty. Mind you, it doesn't mean that I'll do anything constructive with those moments. It only means that I don't have a retort immediately available.

"Do you regret it?"

My elbows on the work desk, I rested my chin in my forepaws, eyes closed. "Regret what?"

"Talking to me."

"It wasn't you."

"I'm not the first, no."

"You're not the last, either."

"You've already chosen the last."

I looked at the picture of the tiger, trying to ascertain what was different. I could never tell, at least not easily. When I really looked at such images, they never seem to have changed, yet I could remember having seen this tiger elsewhere, or perhaps it was a fox, a fox of broader build, shorts, a large motorcycle, doffing or donning heavy boots depending upon how you looked at it. Similar colors, though, and a similar...

"Yes," I admitted. "I have."

"Do you miss him?"

"Terribly."

"And me?"

The question didn't seem to merit an answer. I rubbed my eyes again, looked at the clock, wondering if it was going to tell me a different answer. It told me nothing, although I did learn that more minutes had passed than I'd thought. It wasn't always like this, but often enough that I began to wonder what I was supposed to do about it. That was the rule, wasn't it? Beyond a certain age, you're supposed to be an adult -- a certification created not out of readiness or training but merely from the passage of time. How few of us actually knew what to do when the mantle was thrust upon us, less from pride and honor than from spite and malice.

"Will you turn into one of those?"

"Those what?" I asked unnecessarily. I knew the answer; I just wanted to hear it from the tiger's lips for a change.

"The ones who turn all of life into capitalism, who turn all of art into pornography, who reduce desire to lust, who seek to describe the same physicality in a production line of sexual activities and dare to call the stories 'new,' to turn their own need into desperation that will never be sated?"

"Oh, you mean like--" And I named them, the darlings, the mercenaries, the literary whores, the panderers, those who rape Cupid and befoul Eros for the sake of cash or status. I knew some of them, avoided the rest, were derided or ignored by them all. Even speaking their names made me want to rinse my muzzle with gasoline and set it on fire. That, of course, was self-righteous hyperbole, guaranteed to accomplish nothing, not even to make me feel better.

"Do I hurt you?"

I covered my eyes with my forepaws, breathed evenly to prevent sobs. "I know you don't mean to."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"How can I not hurt you?"

"Are you allowed to love me?"

"Allowed by whom?"

I looked again at the picture on my screen, the handsome young white tiger, stripes of azure, eyes of steel blue, his lean body covered in fur softer than even I could imagine. He gazed at me steadily, nothing in his posture or gaze conveying anything to me beyond that which I most craved in all the next world, because it could not exist in this one. "Please," I said softly, "don't tease me."

"Come back with me to the coffee house."

I looked at him, fighting tears.

"Please." As I watched, his forepaw reached out to me. "You know it's what you want. What you need. Let go and come with me."

The screen shifted slightly as the word processor returned. Zenzero continued to reach out to me.

"Please..."

* * * * * * * * * *

I sat on the plush padded bench seat, unmarred fabric of chocolate brown, my back against the equally well-padded back of the open-facing booth. Zenzero sat not across from me but to my left, the two of us at two sides of the small, well-polished wood table, a comfortable L-shape in the back of the warmly welcoming coffee house. The corner was softly lit, and it had the advantage of being able to see the entire place, from the entrance to the counter, even to the stone wall with the built-in bookshelves and the hearth where a proper fire burned low, friendly, adding warmth to the heart and to the room. The rafters, thick wooden beams, treated and painted to a dark mahogany, crisscrossed above our heads, as "air ferns" brought a sense of living lightness to the shop.

"I want you to tell me something, and I want it to be true." The tiger took a sip from his mug, then nodded to mine. "Don't worry; I freshened it up."

I considered for a moment. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"Who's here?"

The place was empty, as if we'd become the sole clients invited to experience the renovation. I heard music -- soft, free-form, floating yet not soporific. Slowly, a few sounds made themselves known from the area behind the counter. Someone had to be working here; the place wouldn't be open if there were no one to run the joint.

"Who's on staff today?" the tiger asked me softly.

"Quixos."

The rainbow-striped zebra moved into view, perhaps from the back area, glancing around the shop to see if anyone or anything needed attention. Everything seemed to be all right to his appraising eye, and he went back to tidying things up, perhaps in preparation for customers.

"Who's coming in?"

I looked down at my cup. "Perhaps no one. Perhaps everyone is working."

Tenderly, his forepaw touched my own. "Please. Tell me the truth."

"Shall the cheetah and raccoon tell their truth? Is that what you want?"

He looked at me, his steel blue eyes more tender than I'd ever seen them. "What truth do you want to tell, right here, right now?"

I closed my eyes, fighting back the hurt, the sobbing, the tears. This wasn't the place. Perhaps not even the time. I felt the tiger's forepaw squeezing mine again, and I tried to breathe slowly, fully. It wasn't supposed to hurt so much, it wasn't supposed to feel like something gouging at my brain, ripping open my belly, crushing my organs. There wasn't supposed to be so much pain, so much unrequited need. Love isn't supposed to hurt.

"Where did you get that stupid idea?"

The half-smile in Zenzero's voice echoed in my ears and in my head. "Probably the same place I heard that love meant never having to say you're sorry."

"A movie to be devoutly avoided."

"And dialog not to be repeated." I breathed more smoothly now. Of course love hurts. If we didn't need it, want it, feel it so very deeply, it would mean nothing. The thought occurred. "Kenton. Javier. Do they...?"

Nothing from the tiger. I already knew the answer.

"They do, if they want to."

I didn't have to open my eyes to feel him nodding. "Is theirs the story you are to tell?"

"Perhaps," I said softly. I felt the next sentence before I spoke it. "If I listen to them."

"Yes."

"There is someone else first..."

"Who is that?"

"Someone who is afraid of how much love hurts."

"What is his name?"

I thought for a long moment, listened, waited, listened more, and the sound of a Nepalese name came softly to my lips. "Navanit."

"Again."

"Nevanit," I breathed. Life.

"And once more."

"Navanit?" Quixos' voice called out with curiosity and a shade of embarrassment. He looked over to find the large, exotic ram moving on hooves muffled by the sand-colored industrial carpet. The zebra smiled, holding up the mug. "Did I say it right?"

"Perfectly." The visitor spoke with just the faintest hint of accent. "I've thought of spelling it with two e's rather than the 'i', but it hasn't been too much trouble."

"May I ask...?"

"It's Nepalese. Means 'one who takes pleasure in new joys'." Taking a sip of his brew, he smiled broadly. "Easy to do, with such a delicious concoction! What did you call it again?"

The zebra grinned. "Three-Two-One-Go. Three shots of espresso, two white chocolate, one caramel. I joked that it came about from my days as a sprinter."

"What was your specialty?"

"Story-telling." The grin grew larger. "I was never a runner in my life."

The argali laughed, a big, full, unashamed laugh that caromed happily off the walls as Quixos joined in. In just moments, both turned toward the front door as the soft bell chimed to announce another customer. The well-made black-footed ferret, casually clad, black eyes bright with undisguised delight, padded quickly to the great ram, who wisely set down his mug as his young lover jumped into his arms for a kiss hello. Nothing at all shy about this one, and no one minded the expression of affection in the slightest, least of all Quixos, who looked on with a tiny touch of envy but with a great deal more delight than anything else. He moved quietly to get a second mug ready, in case the new arrival decided that he wanted to taste something apart from the ram's lips.

"What is the young ferret's name?" whispered the tiger.

After a long moment, during which Quixos began to wonder if his muzzle was going to freeze into a permanent expression of delight, the two lovers managed to separate long enough for the argali to set the ferret back upon his hindpaws and turn once more to the counter. "As you can see, my young friend here may not need so many shots of espresso!" This earned the ram a playful slap on the arm and a short raspberry from a particularly talented tongue. "What would you like, luv?"

"Hot chocolate with just a little coffee in it?"

"Can do," the zebra nodded happily. "Would you like a shot of extra flavor? My treat."

"Why, thank you! How about orange?"

"Orange, and a little extra dark chocolate to make it richer. Name?"

"Jericho."

"Interesting choice," the tiger whispered. "And how many his age would want orange in their chocolate?"

"Any who have good taste." I looked at the great ram, who gazed down into the sparkling black eyes of the young male who had so captivated his heart. It wasn't something expected, planned for, perhaps not even wise. There could be a great deal of hurt, for both of them, if they had to be separated. But that...

"That's not the point," Zenzero whispered.

"No."

"The point is..."

"To tell the truth."

Sometimes, the truth led you somewhere dark, somewhere alien, somewhere that the only thing left was raw physicality, anger, obscenity, faithlessness. Yes, there are dark truths. And when they come to me to tell those stories, I must give them my own faith in telling their truth. But they came to me, you see, and that's what makes the difference. None who have only the basest tales to tell find their way to me. That's what the others are for. Here, this place, this shop, these stories...

"You're allowed," I said to no one in particular. "I'm allowed."

A kiss whispered on my cheek. I knew without looking that my mug was full.

Drink, ghosted the otherworldly voice. Drink deep.