Nine Lives

Five cats were living with me. Crawling all over the green carpet. Sharpening their claws on the edge of the wooden closet door. I never had pets growing up. And as I’m dressing myself on the purple loveseat, I hear mewling from the closet. When I swing open the door, my gray cat drags himself out. He rasps for water. The word comes out slowly, each syllable stretched out by his longing. There are two kittens in the closet too. One is dead. She’s laying grotesquely, paws in the air, fur crusted over. Four cats were living with me. One orange cat that kept stretching and sprawling. One white cat licking her soft, pink paws. One black cat purring against my ankles. One gray cat sunbathing on the window sill. People have been all over the house. Memories of quality time flashing through my synapses. Dinner on the white, marble island in the kitchen. Dancing under the trellis out back. Dessert wine and yellow cake. Digested while perched on rose gold bar stools adorned with pink geraniums. Romance lives here. It makes me dizzy and forgetful. Like everything in my mind is firing too fast to remember. Maybe love is a drug.