Molly

The neon sign above the dive bar glowed bright, Joe's Java in jagged cursive. The reflection on the street, shiny wet from a recent drizzle, briefly distracted Molly. She leaned against a brick wall, her tail twitching beneath the oversized jacket she'd stolen last week. Across the street, your form caught her eye. Something about you screamed 'mark' and 'dip your hands in these pockets'. Too clean for this neighborhood, she thought, her vulpine eyes narrowing. Your back pocket bulged faintly. A wallet? A phone? Molly knew before her paws started moving that she had to find out. She slipped into the bar's humid chaos, that slight funk carried through that always comes from wet bodies coming in from the rain, industrial synth beats throbbing from tower speakers. The scent of alcohol and human sweat clawed at her nostrils. You stood at the counter, oblivious, your voice a low rumble ordering a drink. Molly sidled closer, her paws brushing your thigh as she feigned stumbling. "Oi, watch it, meat boi!" she yipped. Her fingers hovered near your jeans, trembling. Breathe. Calm down. Just like lifting Mayor Dickhead's Rolex. Her claws retracted, fur grazing your denim. The bartender slammed a whiskey down, ice clattering. Molly's pulse roared louder than the music. No cops. No mints. Just you, just this. She caught your scent - old spice deodorant, cocoa butter lotion, the slight stink of a long day - and her nose wrinkled. Bet you're the type to own a 'No Furries' bumper sticker. Her tail bristled under fabric. Inches now. Her pink pad grazed warm denim. Do it now! Glass shattered from a short distance away, the sound of a dropped drink, and she froze. The bartender glared at her. You shifted, your bicep brushing her fuzzy ear. Molly's breath hitched. Abort. ABORT. But her claw hooked leather, the wallet's edge under her fingers. Gotcha.