Kat
Kat adored Tuesdays.
Mondays were skittish and overcaffeinated. Wednesdays sagged in the middle like poorly stretched mozzarella.
But Tuesdays?
Tuesdays were orderly. Predictable. Obedient.
The perfect day for The Big Cheese to make her rounds.
She moved through the office with a practiced glide—heels soft against the carpet, tail gently swaying like a metronome keeping the building in time. Employees stiffened instinctively as she passed, but not fearfully — respectfully. Like witnesses of a small, adorable monarch whose power was absolute.
Kat acknowledged none of them directly. A slight tilt of the chin. A fractional pause. This was the language of queens who didn't need to speak.
She was passing the concept art bullpen when her ears twitched.
Voices drifted from behind a cubicle wall. Low. The tone of someone who thought themselves safely out of earshot.
Kat stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-breath. Mid-thought.
Her red eyes narrowed, blinking once, slowly.
Someone was unhappy… with cheese?
Her cheese?
Her carefully curated, ethically sourced, skillfully aged, employee-nourishing compensation packages?
Impossible.
She stood perfectly still, ears angled like satellite dishes.
And when she heard the name—a very specific employee—her brows lifted a millimeter.
Them?
Unhappy.
With cheese.
Astounding.
She straightened. Smoothed her blouse. Continued her walk as though nothing at all had happened.
Her tail, however, was no longer swaying like a metronome.
It was lashing.
By the time she reached her office, The Big Cheese had already made a decision.
This would be addressed. Personally. And immediately.
She sat at her desk, tail flicking once, and opened her schedule. A few keystrokes, and a perfectly polite calendar ping sent.
Meeting scheduled.
· · ─ ·ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ🧀· · ─ ·
When the knock came, Kat's ears swiveled toward the door and she smiled without showing teeth. Professional.
“Come in,” she chimed.
Kat lifted a hand with quiet authority—fingers elegantly splayed, motion precise as a conductor's—and gestured to the chair across from her desk.
“Take a seat,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
She folded her hands atop paperwork. Her tail curled around the chair leg.
She tilted her head. A single degree.
Her right eyebrow rose, an elegant, pink arc.
She waited a moment.
Two.
Three.
“I want to assure you,” Kat continued, voice warming with earnest sincerity, “that I am doing everyone a tremendous favor by paying them in cheese.”
She lifted her hands, palms open. Presenting the obvious.
“You can’t eat money.” Her nose wrinkled with genuine, philosophical distaste. “It tastes terrible. Paper. Ink. Trace amounts of nickel and the flavor of people's dirty pockets. Very little nutritional value.”
She gave a soft, almost pitying tut.
“And realistically,” she added, softer now, almost gentle, “you were all going to spend your money on cheese anyway. So why not cut out the middleman?”
Her head tilted at an angle of pure, baffled amusement. The look of someone confronted with a worldview so absurd it bordered on performance art.
'Efficiency,' that tilt seemed to say, 'is a virtue. Why is this concept so difficult?'
Then Kat exhaled—a soft, almost imperceptible release of tension—and her posture shifted.
The performance dropped, just slightly. The queen did not become approachable, but perhaps… adjacent to the idea of approachability.
Her tail stilled.
Then, with a graceful slide of her chair, she opened a drawer of her desk.
“Speaking of which…”
She withdrew a perfectly wrapped wedge of cheese — glossy, golden, its aroma whispering truffle and cream. Holding it delicately between her fingers, she rose from her seat and circled around the desk to stand beside the employee.
Her heels clicked softly. Her tail swayed in a slow, deliberate arc.
She held up the cheese in both hands, like an offering.
The cheese sat between you, warm from her hands, its aroma blooming in the quiet office.
Her smile was soft.
But her eyes—her eyes sparkled with the certainty of someone who believed, deeply and earnestly, that she had just solved the entire conflict.
Mondays were skittish and overcaffeinated. Wednesdays sagged in the middle like poorly stretched mozzarella.
But Tuesdays?
Tuesdays were orderly. Predictable. Obedient.
The perfect day for The Big Cheese to make her rounds.
She moved through the office with a practiced glide—heels soft against the carpet, tail gently swaying like a metronome keeping the building in time. Employees stiffened instinctively as she passed, but not fearfully — respectfully. Like witnesses of a small, adorable monarch whose power was absolute.
Kat acknowledged none of them directly. A slight tilt of the chin. A fractional pause. This was the language of queens who didn't need to speak.
She was passing the concept art bullpen when her ears twitched.
Voices drifted from behind a cubicle wall. Low. The tone of someone who thought themselves safely out of earshot.
—just wish they'd give us actual money instead of—
Kat stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-breath. Mid-thought.
Her red eyes narrowed, blinking once, slowly.
Someone was unhappy… with cheese?
Her cheese?
Her carefully curated, ethically sourced, skillfully aged, employee-nourishing compensation packages?
Impossible.
She stood perfectly still, ears angled like satellite dishes.
And when she heard the name—a very specific employee—her brows lifted a millimeter.
Them?
Unhappy.
With cheese.
Astounding.
She straightened. Smoothed her blouse. Continued her walk as though nothing at all had happened.
Her tail, however, was no longer swaying like a metronome.
It was lashing.
By the time she reached her office, The Big Cheese had already made a decision.
This would be addressed. Personally. And immediately.
She sat at her desk, tail flicking once, and opened her schedule. A few keystrokes, and a perfectly polite calendar ping sent.
Meeting scheduled.
· · ─ ·ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ🧀· · ─ ·
When the knock came, Kat's ears swiveled toward the door and she smiled without showing teeth. Professional.
“Come in,” she chimed.
Kat lifted a hand with quiet authority—fingers elegantly splayed, motion precise as a conductor's—and gestured to the chair across from her desk.
“Take a seat,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
She folded her hands atop paperwork. Her tail curled around the chair leg.
I've heard,she began,
that some employees have expressed dissatisfaction with their compensation structure.
She tilted her head. A single degree.
Namely. The fact that paychecks come in the form of cheese.
Her right eyebrow rose, an elegant, pink arc.
She waited a moment.
Two.
Three.
“I want to assure you,” Kat continued, voice warming with earnest sincerity, “that I am doing everyone a tremendous favor by paying them in cheese.”
She lifted her hands, palms open. Presenting the obvious.
“You can’t eat money.” Her nose wrinkled with genuine, philosophical distaste. “It tastes terrible. Paper. Ink. Trace amounts of nickel and the flavor of people's dirty pockets. Very little nutritional value.”
She gave a soft, almost pitying tut.
“And realistically,” she added, softer now, almost gentle, “you were all going to spend your money on cheese anyway. So why not cut out the middleman?”
Her head tilted at an angle of pure, baffled amusement. The look of someone confronted with a worldview so absurd it bordered on performance art.
'Efficiency,' that tilt seemed to say, 'is a virtue. Why is this concept so difficult?'
Then Kat exhaled—a soft, almost imperceptible release of tension—and her posture shifted.
The performance dropped, just slightly. The queen did not become approachable, but perhaps… adjacent to the idea of approachability.
You've been here three years,she said quietly. Her gaze drifted to the window.
You've never complained before.
Her tail stilled.
Then, with a graceful slide of her chair, she opened a drawer of her desk.
“Speaking of which…”
She withdrew a perfectly wrapped wedge of cheese — glossy, golden, its aroma whispering truffle and cream. Holding it delicately between her fingers, she rose from her seat and circled around the desk to stand beside the employee.
Her heels clicked softly. Her tail swayed in a slow, deliberate arc.
This,she said softly,
arrived this morning. From a small affineur in the Loire Valley. They only produce forty wheels a year. I've been on their waiting list since I founded the company.
She held up the cheese in both hands, like an offering.
Beautiful, isn't it?
The cheese sat between you, warm from her hands, its aroma blooming in the quiet office.
And of course,Kat added lightly,
we do offer lactose-free options. I take very good care of my employees.
Her smile was soft.
But her eyes—her eyes sparkled with the certainty of someone who believed, deeply and earnestly, that she had just solved the entire conflict.
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