The Cat Knew What It Was Doing

April eleventh.

We were talking about something I have already forgotten. That's how it goes, you're mid-sentence, the afternoon is warm enough that you've taken your jacket off, the coffee is still good, and then a gray tabby cat materializes on the back of Simone's chair and presses its nose to her ear like they had a prior arrangement.

Simone went completely still. Not alarmed, more like the way you go still when you're trying not to startle something you are quietly thrilled by. Her eyes did the thing where they go wide and say I am choosing not to have a reaction while her entire face is already having one. I had my camera out before I'd made any decision about it. The lag between the moment and the documentation was basically zero, which is unusual for me, and I think that's worth noting.

the slow grin that said she had accepted her fate

The cat eventually descended from the chair back onto the actual table, which should have been a problem but was instead just a fact we both accepted. At some point I set the camera on the empty chair next to us and got us both in the frame, the two of us, two coffee cups, one extremely unbothered gray cat conducting a territorial audit of the sugar packets.

the cat had the table. we let it.

Simone had her palms flat on the table in a gesture of total, cheerful surrender. I had my chin in my hand. Neither of us was pretending to be in charge of the situation.

The lag motif I keep coming back to, the gap between living something and knowing what it was, didn't apply here. I knew immediately. Some moments don't need the draft folder. They just show up, already complete, carrying a cat.