September 3

The cat is sleeping on the desk. She has been there for thirteen years — longer than I’ve lived in any city, longer than most of the relationships I can name.

She wakes when the tower hums a different note. Not a sound anyone else would notice. Just the one that means something inside has changed.

She stretches, looks at me with the same eyes she had when she was small enough to fit in my hands. Nothing about her has changed. I have.

The fan spins. The machine does its work. She goes back to sleep in the same spot, as if the world is held together by nothing more persistent than an animal choosing to stay.