Part 2

The floor and walls were light and bare, without pictures or even a rug to soften the boards. A single couch sat adrift, turned to the corner where the television was silent. A mismatched chair sat off to the side. There were no lamps to lend the room warmth, just a thinly covered overhead light flooding the bare expanse of the room with an unforgiving brightness.

The silence of the room made my ears ring.

You took your coat off and placed it carefully folded onto the armchair. It meant there would only be one place to sit: right there on the couch, beside you, no doubt.

But you were smiling again, and your voice warm when you said, “Make yourself at home.”

I stood there awkwardly, unsure what “home” meant.

I must have looked confused.

You laughed, nervously, and told me it was fine, really. That you were glad I was here. You offered me a drink, then changed your mind mid-sentence, mumbling something about not wanting to overwhelm me. You gestured toward the couch instead and said we could sit, talk, take things slow.

I intended to do just that.

I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t sit right away, pretending I was interested in the curtains. Floor length, lightweight, textured, and flowing with long ties and tassels. Repeated leaf patterns. The sort of pattern one could get lost in. They were frayed in places. Like they’d been clawed at. They reminded me of how you approached me, windblown, dubious, insecure.

You coughed and patted the empty seat next to you on the couch.

So I sat.

And that’s when you started telling me about your dreams.

The cat dreams.

You didn’t ease into it. You just blurted it out, like it had been sitting on your ribs this whole night.

You told me about standing at your window, the one with the leaf-pattern curtains. Told me about the night outside feeling too quiet. About the sudden thump of something landing on the sill. The window squeaked as the object rubbed along it. “A cat,” you said, your eyes bright and frightened. “A sleek Siamese. Pale fur with dark points on its ears. Every time, it’s a different cat. I open the window, and they come in without any invitation. Look up like they’ve been waiting. Blue eyes, it had, sharp and curious. A soft voice yet demanding. Always a different cat, and I always let them in. Like I can’t help myself.”

You laughed shakily.

“I know it sounds weird.”

I nodded, because it did. And because I’d gone from feeling a little uncomfortable to something sharp and pointed – like your Siamese – beginning to grip at my muscles, narrow my thoughts, and snag my breath.

You closed the living room door. I remember thinking this. And you positioned yourself between me and the door. It was possibly unintentional. But it didn’t feel that way. I wanted to get up, stretch, and ask for a drink. Make a bolt for the door while you fetched it. But I stayed put.

You kept talking, a thousand words a minute, voice hushed like someone else might hear you.

“The cats look at me like they know something I don’t. Something about me. Something I’m not supposed to know yet.” You looked from me to the television set, which was off, but in the bright overhead light still caught us there on the screen, as though we were starring in our own drama.

“One was a tabby. Ordinary, scruffy little thing. Recognized it from down the road. I let it in and all it did was stare into this corner. Right there at the telly. Did it for ages. It wasn’t even on.”

I swallowed. My throat so dry.

You leaned closer.