She might have been waiting for me. Or I might have just been a clumsy interruption in her morning vista of sidewalk, street and trees. Her eyes told me nothing. They were black-lined and Egyptian, catching the sun like very still and very deep waters. They were amber – the black pupils caught within them like prehistoric insects.
Her presence was feline and dignified. I walk in front of her and stop – to see if she would recognize me, to wait – perhaps – for some sort of judgement. She stares at me not without interest; but not, however, with much pleasure. She is as solid as a statue, as cruel as an icon, as magnificent as a goddess. Her domesticity insults her; still, it is a very nice thing to sit at a windowsill on a sunny morning.
Sometimes I see her crouched beneath the table, set well back into a Cubist room of crowded squares and rectangles. Her round, white face is a welcome relief from the shadowy throng. She is a serene, unblinking oaisis in a forest of furniture.
I look for her always, although I'm sure I bore her. When I see her, I meow, I say 'kittykittykitty'. Her marvelous expression does not change. She waits to see what I'll do next, hoping it proves to be more interesting than whatever I had been doing.
She must know that I admire her misanthropic beauty. And she came up with a way to thank me: she never runs away.