Bartholomew's Smug Satisfaction

Nana John stood on the worn, gravel path, the scent of damp earth and blooming honeysuckle a stark contrast to the dust of her recent, rather undignified, scramble. Sunday, her Sunday, the Sunday she’d so spectacularly, and in retrospect, hilariously, jettisoned for a man whose primary contribution to her life had been a collection of increasingly gaudy monocles, was currently engaged in a vigorous debate with a particularly stubborn dandelion. He looked… well, he looked like Sunday. Which was to say, he looked entirely unbothered, his brow furrowed not in anger, nor longing, but in the quiet concentration of someone deeply invested in the eradication of invasive flora.

Bartholomew, perched imperiously on Nana John’s shoulder, let out a low, rumbling purr that vibrated through her bones. It was a purr of profound, almost smug, satisfaction. He’d seen it all, hadn’t he? The ridiculous map, the ill-advised trek through the llama farm (he’d still occasionally twitch his ears at the memory of their indignant spitting), the philosophical pronouncements of a rodent with an unusually eloquent tail. And through it all, he’d known. He’d known, with the unerring certainty of a creature whose primary concerns were naps and strategically placed sunbeams, that Nana John’s grand quest was less about buried doubloons and more about a rather spectacular case of self-delusion.

“So,” Nana John began, her voice cracking slightly, a pathetic squeak that did little to convey the dramatic internal monologue currently raging within her. She’d envisioned this moment a thousand times. It involved tears, a confession of undying (albeit delayed) affection, and perhaps a shared sunset. Instead, she got… gardening. “You… you look well, Sunday.”