I awake to the sound of her raspy breathing. He hand is on my back; a light hand that is no more substantial than if she had lain a sheet of rice paper upon me. I give her old, spotted fingers a coarse-tongued lick, and when she only responds by smacking her lips, I decide to do a bit more exploring. When I slip from beneath her hand, it doesnt drop, doesnt move.
The apartment is laid out thusly: the entrance from the outside landing opens into a small, tidy living room, about half the size I would like to live in, but appropriately sized for someone like Gen. Standing in that entrance, if you look to the left, there is the short hallway leading to an even smaller, tidier kitchen, and to the right, with no hallway only a doorway, and not even a door is the bedroom (which, including the closet and bathroom is larger than the compact living room). The small, small bathroom with lavatory, toilet, and walk-in shower equipped with a metal seat is somehow fitted into the far corner of the bedroom. There is a door there, albeit a very narrow one that some people might have a hard time fitting through. Again, its just the right size for Gen.
Beside the bathroom is a floor-to-ceiling closet with folding, louvered doors. A tap of the paw causes the door to fold open. With cat curiosity, I go inside.
There are shoes here, some in boxes some out. Some of them have tassels that tease me to come sink my claws and teeth into them. Here we are, they say, Were small and mouselike! Dont you want to see what we are?
I fight this urge because these are Gens shoes, and I would not make her sad or angry by vandalizing her property. Instead, I climb up a dress that hangs low on the far end of the hanging rod, and make my way to the topmost shelf of the closet. There I am confronted by boxes. Paper boxes. Plastic boxes. Metal boxes. All of them, I know, are treasure boxes. I climb over these and find myself in a deep, dark corner.
Something scurries just past my foot and I catch it on a claw and then crush it between my teeth. It is furry a spider. And it doesnt taste good, so I do nt eat it or chew on it any further. This shadow-place; this unfathomable back space, is the only place crawling things like spiders can live in this apartment. There is too much life in the rest of the place. Too much light. Too much movement. But here it can live and thrive, hidden among the treasures like an eight-legged ghost guardian protecting a pirates horde.
I want to open one of the boxes, but I dare not. One does not go peeking into another persons treasure, even if one is a cat. Its simply not done.
But
one box, one cardboard lid
surely it wouldnt hurt.
Here in the back space there are more boxes and I choose the smallest of them one made of sturdy cardboard, but with a shallowly formed lid that is light and easy for me to lift up and slide back. In the semi-magical gloom of a closet shelf, I strain even my cats eyes to look inside
I will not tell you what I see. It breaks my heart, and it would break yours also.
Im not sure if Ive been in Gens apartment for two days or three now. Maybe its four. Cat time is different from human time. In fact, with cat time, the progression of the day, as far as, What time is it? Oh? Its that late? Ive got so much more to do! doesnt matter as much as, What time is it? Oh? Naptime? Good! or, What time is it? Oh? Its time for the Deli man to empty his waste bin? Those are the times that matter to a cat. Those, and twilight and midnight times that are important to all creatures of magic. And make no mistake, cats are creatures of magic.
When Irmina comes in to clean this morning (Irmina is the cleaning lady of course), Gen is stretched across the sofa, asleep. Her legs, scarcely more than bones wrapped in the wrinkled brown paper of her skin, are covered by a crocheted throw. Gen sleeps on the sofa like that more than she sleeps in her bed. I think it is because the record player is in her living room and she likes to listen to music before she goes to sleep.
Her stereo is one of those big ones like they used to make, like everyone probably had back in the old times, with all the components speakers, radio, turntable encased in a wooden cabinet that stands off the floor on curved legs that end in what looks like brass catpaws. The old speakers wouldnt stand up to the thump thump of a modern rock/rap band, but for the sweet strains of Scheherazade, they do rather nicely. Though the turntable stops turning automatically when the stylus reaches the end of the final groove of the vinyl, the electronics remain on until turned off manually. This means the transistors constantly remain warm. I find the carpet beneath the stereo to be a rather comfortable spot (though not as comfortable as Gens lap, but then her lap disappears when she lies down, doesnt it?) and it is here that I was when Irmina comes in.
I watch her tiptoe past the sleeping mistress of the house, and straight to the end table where sits Gens large purse. This isnt the first time I have witnessed this. She has done the same thing each day that I have been here. Always moving quickly and quietly to get the deed done without waking Gen.
Irmina places a tiny, freshly charged teleportation device in Gens purse.
Paragon City is full of super-folk of all stripes. Some of us are independently wealthy and immensely powerful. Some of us have to work for a living and do our crime-fighting in our spare time. But Irmina doesnt refer to what she does as crime-fighting. No, she calls it world-betterment. And she does so with an accent that hints of humid Southern nights and deep-fried love.
Irmina is a member of group of powered individuals who call themselves the Salt. I believe it is a Biblical reference, though I dont know enough about the Bible to be sure, and she never openly espouses any particular doctrine. I do know that she is a good person and that on the rare occasion that Gens purse has been snatched from her, Irmina has always managed to retrieve it, though Gen has never known how.
People tell their secrets to animals. It is both a wonderful privilege and a terrible weight to bear.
Irmina places the device then looks at me where I stretch lazily beneath the cabinet stereo and then she places a finger to her lips. It is at this point that I put my legs beneath me and push myself out from my warm and comfy spot. I know that the next step in this dance is a good scritch between my ears and that is well worth stirring ones self for.
Prince, she says softly, as she bends down to reach me, I dont know where you came from, but Miss Genevieve surely has taken a liking to you.
I jump up on the table beside the purse and Irmina straightens up with a small groan of effort.
Anything ever happens to her, Im going to take you home with me. The Salt will be happy to have you around. Yes, yes, you will be a spoiled kitty then.
Actually, I am already a spoiled kitty. Youll never know how good it feels to have someone scratch the top of your head between your ears until you have lived as a cat. There are few human sensations that compare to it. And dont get me started about a good belly rub.
Irmina gives me a final rub all the way from my ears to the tip of my tail, then leaves me to go wake Gen. Gen rises, and the two of them go about the business of cleaning the apartment. Irmina does all the hard work, but Gen does as much as she is able. Irmina lets her, not because she is lazy, but because it is Gens apartment and Irmina respects that.
Irmina is salt. Pure salt.
I watch them work for an hour at one point giving them a good show of pouncing the vacuum cleaner but when they went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, I decided to take a catnap. I fell asleep to the soft sound of feminine laughter.
As I slept, I dreamed of running through Gemini Park with Miu, chasing squirrels.
Im not sure if Ive been in Gens apartment for two days or three now. Maybe its four. Cat time is different from human time. In fact, with cat time, the progression of the day, as far as, What time is it? Oh? Its that late? Ive got so much more to do! doesnt matter as much as, What time is it? Oh? Naptime? Good! or, What time is it? Oh? Its time for the Deli man to empty his waste bin? Those are the times that matter to a cat. Those, and twilight and midnight times that are important to all creatures of magic. And make no mistake, cats are creatures of magic.
When Irmina comes in to clean this morning (Irmina is the cleaning lady of course), Gen is stretched across the sofa, asleep. Her legs, scarcely more than bones wrapped in the wrinkled brown paper of her skin, are covered by a crocheted throw. Gen sleeps on the sofa like that more than she sleeps in her bed. I think it is because the record player is in her living room and she likes to listen to music before she goes to sleep.
Her stereo is one of those big ones like they used to make, like everyone probably had back in the old times, with all the components speakers, radio, turntable encased in a wooden cabinet that stands off the floor on curved legs that end in what looks like brass catpaws. The old speakers wouldnt stand up to the thump thump of a modern rock/rap band, but for the sweet strains of Scheherazade, they do rather nicely. Though the turntable stops turning automatically when the stylus reaches the end of the final groove of the vinyl, the electronics remain on until turned off manually. This means the transistors constantly remain warm. I find the carpet beneath the stereo to be a rather comfortable spot (though not as comfortable as Gens lap, but then her lap disappears when she lies down, doesnt it?) and it is here that I was when Irmina comes in.
I watch her tiptoe past the sleeping mistress of the house, and straight to the end table where sits Gens large purse. This isnt the first time I have witnessed this. She has done the same thing each day that I have been here. Always moving quickly and quietly to get the deed done without waking Gen.
Irmina places a tiny, freshly charged teleportation device in Gens purse.
Paragon City is full of super-folk of all stripes. Some of us are independently wealthy and immensely powerful. Some of us have to work for a living and do our crime-fighting in our spare time. But Irmina doesnt refer to what she does as crime-fighting. No, she calls it world-betterment. And she does so with an accent that hints of humid Southern nights and deep-fried love.
Irmina is a member of group of powered individuals who call themselves the Salt. I believe it is a Biblical reference, though I dont know enough about the Bible to be sure, and she never openly espouses any particular doctrine. I do know that she is a good person and that on the rare occasion that Gens purse has been snatched from her, Irmina has always managed to retrieve it, though Gen has never known how.
People tell their secrets to animals. It is both a wonderful privilege and a terrible weight to bear.
Irmina places the device then looks at me where I stretch lazily beneath the cabinet stereo and then she places a finger to her lips. It is at this point that I put my legs beneath me and push myself out from my warm and comfy spot. I know that the next step in this dance is a good scritch between my ears and that is well worth stirring ones self for.
Prince, she says softly, as she bends down to reach me, I dont know where you came from, but Miss Genevieve surely has taken a liking to you.
I jump up on the table beside the purse and Irmina straightens up with a small groan of effort.
Anything ever happens to her, Im going to take you home with me. The Salt will be happy to have you around. Yes, yes, you will be a spoiled kitty then.
Actually, I am already a spoiled kitty. Youll never know how good it feels to have someone scratch the top of your head between your ears until you have lived as a cat. There are few human sensations that compare to it. And dont get me started about a good belly rub.
Irmina gives me a final rub all the way from my ears to the tip of my tail, then leaves me to go wake Gen. Gen rises, and the two of them go about the business of cleaning the apartment. Irmina does all the hard work, but Gen does as much as she is able. Irmina lets her, not because she is lazy, but because it is Gens apartment and Irmina respects that.
Irmina is salt. Pure salt.
I watch them work for an hour at one point giving them a good show of pouncing the vacuum cleaner but when they went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, I decided to take a catnap. I fell asleep to the soft sound of feminine laughter.
As I slept, I dreamed of running through Gemini Park with Miu, chasing squirrels.
I woke up from my mid-afternoon nap with that feeling. You know that feeling…
When you live your life dealing with mages trying to mold reality like clay or attacks from angry gods bent ripping up the universe like yesterday’s junk mail, you begin to get a feel for impending… something. It’s not always danger. Just change. Huge change. As if the world you see now is not the world as it was two minutes ago and this is the new reality and you’d better damn well live in it or die.
The impending was here.
I climbed out from beneath the stereo cabinet and looked around. The evening sun was low and streaming through the windows, illuminating the apartment in a soft gold. There was no sound – no music coming softly from the stereo speakers; no clicking and clacking coming from the kitchen where this time of day Gen was usually preparing a pan of oatmeal or steaming some vegetables for her evening meal. The apartment was silent, completely silent.
Gen wasn’t on the sofa and I couldn’t hear her moving about the apartment. I crept on cat’s paws through her home, searching, desperately hoping that she was gone to the park to paint and would come through the door with a smile on her beautiful, wrinkled face. Or maybe she’d had a late doctor’s appointment which she and Irmina had somehow not mentioned earlier in the day.
A trip to the kitchen proved unfruitful – there was no evidence that she had so much as stirred a cup of soup. A fear was growing within me. Not a fear for her, but a fear for me.
I padded to her bedroom, stopping to listen as I approached the partly opened door. I could hear the faint sound of her breathing coming through the crack, so I went inside. There she was, on the bed which she hardly ever slept in. She wore a dress that, though I could tell from its style was old, looked new. Perhaps it was the one she had kept hung in the back of the closet – the one I had climbed on a few nights before.
I leapt up beside her and slowly dew near her face. She didn’t see me, her eyes were looking off somewhere far away, somewhere that I couldn’t see, even through cat’s eyes. Her hands were crossed and resting on her belly, and if she had been standing, she would have looked for all the world as if she was waiting. Waiting for a bus or a train. Waiting to meet someone or to leave or perhaps both…
I curled up in the curve of her shoulder and rested my head on her hair. I lay there and counted her breaths, never getting very far before I had to start again because counting is just not what cats do. But I tried. I tried. I knew that soon the counting would stop. I wish I could tell you how I felt, but there are no human words to describe it. But at that moment, it escaped my mouth in a soft “meow.” I counted breaths like sheep until I fell asleep there.
When I woke up, the apartment was dark and I was human again, my time as a cat having finally run out. In the pale glow from the bathroom nightlight, I could see Gen beside me. Her eyes were closed and she looked peacefully asleep, but there were no more breaths to count.
I got up and went to the closet and retrieved the box that was in the corner. After that, I went to the table of framed photographs and chose one taken of her when she was young – about my age – and very beautiful. Then I found the painting she had done of me as a cat. I took these items and started to leave.
At the apartment door, I paused and turned back. I went back to Gen, kissed her cheek and placed the box beneath her bony hand. It belonged with her, and I hoped that Irmina and the Salt would see to it that its contents were buried with her.
Then I finally headed home.
So sad, yet so sweet.....
Global is @Mellissandria
I don't have that much art, but I do write stories and I do collect art on
my DA account
“Do you like tuna?”
Well, of course I do. I purr.
“Well, then, I’ll open us a can.”
She walks to the kitchen in her halting, struggling gait. I hear her knees creak and her hips pop as she goes. I follow along, careful not to make her stumble, but staying close on her heels.
Gen’s apartment is small and tidy. Once a day, she tells me, a lady comes in and helps her clean the place and so it doesn’t smell like some old people’s homes – musty and stale. No, Gen’s place smells of spice and wildflowers which are all over the place in vases and jars.
There are pictures too. Pictures of people I don’t know. Pictures of landscapes and architecture. Paintings and photographs. There are photos of her, from times throughout her life. A small, square-top table in the short hallway between the living room and the kitchen is covered with them. I pause for a moment and let her go ahead while I leap up to the tabletop to look.
She was pretty when she was young. Very pretty. Some of the pictures have cities in the backgrounds – other cities in other countries. There are men in some of them, but never the same man in two of them. There is a sister in many of the pictures – also very pretty – though the older Gen gets in the photos, the fewer of them are with her sister, until by the time Gen’s hair is white, the sister is absent altogether. And there are no children in the photos, but there are cats and dogs and at least one cockatiel. As I sit here on the edge of this table, I see Gen’s life spread before me. She seems happy. I think it’s been a good life for her, despite the fact that she seems to have never gotten married, or had children, or done any of the normal things that people associate with a long, happy life.
She’s lived a semi-solitary life of quiet contentment that she shared only with her sister and her pets. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I leap to the floor and trod quickly to the kitchen.
Gen struggles with the can-opener as I enter; her hands struggle to turn the crank.
“I have an electric one,” she says, “but this helps keep my hands strong. And besides, I can drop this in the dishwasher now and then.”
I look to the countertop where a white electric can-opener sits and I notice the amount of goo and goop that is built up behind the circular cutter. I agree with her. The old hand-cranked model is much more sanitary.
Here you go, she says and sets a small porcelain bowlful of tuna on the floor for me. For me. And then she opens a can for herself and dumps it on a bed of fresh greens.
After we eat, we go back to the living room and she puts a vinyl on the turntable. We listen to Mendelssohn’s Hibrides, and she scratches my ear and tells me stories of the people she’s met and the places she’s been and lovers she’s known. Times she’s had her heart broken and times she’s broken others’ hearts.
The stories go on and on and I listen to them all until she gets quiet. I look up from her lap to see that she hasn’t fallen asleep as I suspected. And though the music long since reached its end, I can tell that she is still hearing something; some long-ago song in a dance hall where her younger self still swirls her skirt and flirts with suitors that time never placed a withering finger on.
I lower my head onto my paws. As I fall asleep, I swear I can hear the sweet sound of Xavier Cugat’s Brazil...