Who does she think she is? Who does she think he is? He’s posted at the window, waiting, watching, listening.
At her invitation, he’d moved in 5 glorious years ago, but even before the move, it had been mutual love at first sight. She had given him nicknames: Mr. Moon beam, Pootie-Poot, but the best one was My Significant Other.
This is the second weekend this month that she has not come home. Three weeks ago, she’d brought a foreign smell with her, like sweet rotting flowers and sweat. That night, he’d left 3 disgusting puddles of mucosa and undigested food and waited for her to make her way, feet bare, for her morning pee. Oh, sweet revenge!
This cheating. He won’t stand for it. But he has a plan. He will fix her and fix her good.
What is that?
His right ear moves like a satellite dish. She’s at the end of the block. Time to get into position. He leaves the window and lies on his side on the bed. Tail and paws straight out. Tip of tongue lolling sideways on the comforter. Weeks of practice, with a best time of 1.5 minutes. He can barely wait.
Footsteps. Key in lock. He inhales and traps his breath deep inside.
“Hi, Pumpkin! How’s my Pootie-Poot. Did you miss me, Mister Moonbeam?” she calls in passing.
How much time does he have left anyway? 30 seconds? Okay, then he will have to set a new time for himself.
“Sweet cakes?” A bit of anxiety now. He’s loving it. Now she’s shaking the bed. “Are…you…okay?”
A beat.
“Why aren’t you moving? OMG! Oh no!”
The thud is her knees hitting the floor. He winces for her, but, oh, this is good. Payback’s a beautiful thing, though he’s starting to feel a dizzy, unfocused, light-headed and light-bodied, unanchored, really.
Rising…rising. Where is he? Drifting higher, he sees what looks like a far-off bridge. And a rainbow. Rainbow Bridge! What the…? Was he…? Had he…? Damn it. What an idiot he was!
He looks down in time to see her swoop his magnificent by limp body into her arms. Jet black and whiskers brighter than moonbeams. Damn, he wasn’t even finished with that body yet.
She places him gently on the bed, crying, stroking him, and now wailing. “Why? Why?”
Okay, enough, he thinks as he tries to get back by breast-stroking in space, in place. But there is no getting back, is there? It’s over. He has fucked up.
Now something pierce his heart. His spirit heart, that is. It’s warm and nearly tickles. His attention turns back, or down, to her and his former self. A shimmering violet light that connects their two hearts. It’s growing brighter, pulsating, and before he can think another thought…
Ugh! Umph!
He’s back. Yes! Watching her watch his beautiful whiskers quiver. She scoops him up again and presses him against her neck.
“You bad, bad boy. You were just messing with my head, weren’t you.” She’s nearly smothering him with hugs and kisses, and he has to admit that he’s relieved that he’s caused her such grief. That’ll teach her. He gives her a feeble, trembling meow. “But don’t you ever…”
Before she gets out “do that again” he reaches up and gives her an unsheathed swipe across the cheek. Shut your mouth and get me a treat, he thinks, as he cleans her dried tears from his claws.
Oh how the heart forgets!
In the Spaces Between Words and Images 