Ginger isn’t as pliable, as needy as Zen is. Although Ginger must walk like other cats from place to place I often think of her as floating, or drifting, appearing again on the horizon. Just out of reach. A mirage, even.
Sometimes I will look down from where I sit to find Ginger looking at me. The look has more weight to it; I give it weight. She doesn’t seem particularly curious about my motives, but she observes. She notices.
Tonight Ginger fell asleep near me on the sofa and her paws, all four, and her face too, everything was all at once in action. Twitching, pulsing. Fascinated, I watched her dreams of inhabiting a younger set of bones and tendons. Her back paws curled up as if she tensed to launch. I pictured her on a night-drenched mesa, stalking the scent of lizard.
Writing from: my study. Listening to: “Incandescent” by Astronoid.
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