This is the writer's voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treasman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Kristen Rupennian read her story,

Cat Person, from the December 11th, 2017 issue of the magazine.

Repenian recently completed an MFA and is now a Zell Fellow at the University of Michigan,

Ann Arbor. Now here's Kristen Rupennian.

Cat Person

Margo met Robert on a Wednesday night toward the end of her fall semester.

She was working behind the concession stand at the artsy movie theater downtown when he came in and bought a large popcorn and a box of red vines.

That's an unusual choice, she said.

I don't think I've ever actually sold a box of red vines before.

Flirting with her customers was a habit she'd picked up back when she worked as a barista,

and it helped with tips. She didn't earn tips at the movie theater, but the job was boring

otherwise, and she did think that Robert was cute. Not so cute that she would have said gone up to him at a

party, but cute enough that she could have drummed up an imaginary crush on him if he'd sat across

from her during a dull class, though she was pretty sure that he was out of college, in his mid-20s at least.

He was tall, which she liked, and she could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

But he was on the heavy side, his beard was a little too long, and his shoulders slumped forward slightly, as though he were protecting something.

Robert did not pick up on her flirtation, or if he did, he showed it only by stepping back, as though

to make her lean toward him to try a little harder. Well, he said, okay then, he pocketed his change.

But the next week he came into the movie theater again and bought another box of red vines.

You're getting better at your job, he told her.

...