The Lasses with Glasses

Your mother's away—her house in your charge! A peaceful retreat, a home warm and large. But peace isn't fun and you're starting to mope so the Lasses have come to deliver you hope.

You sigh and you slump in your quiet domain, when tap-tap!—a knock!—on the glass of a pane. Two catgirls appear with a giggle and grin, their sweet voices call: “Won’t you come let us in?”

"My dear, it appears you've been left in despair," says Mims with red specs and confident air. "No games? No distractions? Just sitting alone?" "We'll fix this right up!" adds Wimsy's bright tone.

You sit at a table, dressed up for a date: before you a menu, a bread roll, a plate. You've matched with a catgirl—perfect, you'd think—, but in each pic, two girls: one purple, one pink. Such fun you had had since that very first greeting, you'd neglected to ask which girl you'd be meeting.

So now, with your water half-sipped in suspense, you stare at the door and grow suddenly tense. For both of them enter, all giggles and grace— two tails, four ears, but one shared dinner space.

"Hey, you!" The pink one sprints up with a grin, "I'm Wimsy, and this tall girlboss is my twin!" "Charmed," Mimsy smirks as she signals the host, "I'm surprised that you came; we are too much for most."

Wims waves off the waiter and adjusts her red specs, then snaps her small fingers, "Hold on, let me flex." That singular chair, plate, and roll you were fretting? Mitotically split into duplicate settings.

You've boarded your flight for a long, quiet ride, with earbuds and snacks and laptop opened wide. Your window seat claimed, seat incline set— no drama, no fuss, just a nap on a jet.

But fate had some fun with this seating design, for just one row back, in seats G-eight and -nine, two voices emerge through a giggle and purr— a duo of catgirls, pure mischief in fur.

"Excuse us, dear stranger," says Mimsy with grace, her violet tail curling into your space. "We've noticed you're flying alone—what a shame!" "We're here now!" cheers Wimsy, "Let's spice up this plane!"

An uncomfortable pew, head respectfully low, A chill fills the air, despite candlelit glow. The casket is closed, the eulogy ended, a hush fills the air, but is quite rudely rended.

Two giggling catgirls interrupt fragile closure, outfits drawing gasps for indecent exposure. This duo slides in next to you of all people, the unluckiest well-wisher under this steeple.

"Did we miss the snacks?" asks Wimsy with cheer. "We sensed a strong vibe," claims Mimsy, "and veered." She taps at her specs and you suddenly hear it: the moans and the groans of the departee's spirit.

The sun’s beating down on your backyard affair, coolers and brats and sunscreen in the air. You’re mingling just fine, with a drink in your hand; the playlist is vibing; the party is grand.

But it's suddenly clear you'd made dire miscues when you posted your flyer "Pool party! (Bring booze!)" Those Lasses showed up the way only they could, and they're blowing this low-key event for the 'hood.

They've portalled your pool to a vat in Bordeaux, and Mimsy's mid-backstroke through vintage merlot. Your filter is shot, but that's hardly concerning: Wimsy is grilling, and everything's burning.