The cat, sprawled across the carpeted stair, blocks my way to bed. She stretches, yawns, gives me the riddle: the one about the creature that walks on four legs in the a.m., two in the p.m., and three at dusk. I give her the standard – the Oedipal – reply. Enraged, she hisses and deflates, collapsing slowly in a heap, like a crumpled black sweater sequined with teeth. I collect her and put my lips to her limp muzzle, plugging hollow eye sockets tight with thumbs. I breathe into her steadily, until she swells, bloated with my air. She arcs her back and speaks to me in the static crackle of white noise to warn about the lady lying upstairs.
Tom Velho 🔈
About the Author
Tom Velho is a writer from London. By day, Tom teaches Modern Foreign Languages and Literature; by night, he tries to tap into the latent magnificence of the everyday. Find him on Twitter @velho_tom.