The Cat Who Knew

Maya found herself **swimming** through the aisles of Whole Foods at 7 PM on a Tuesday, the fluorescent lights creating a haze above her. Three weeks after the funeral, she was still operating on autopilot, her body moving through motions her mind couldn't fully register.

She stopped cold in the produce section.

There it was—a fresh bunch of **spinach**, leaves impossibly green, nothing like the wilted bag still sitting in her refrigerator crisper drawer. David had bought organic spinach every Sunday for his morning smoothies. He'd been so proud of his healthy routines, so certain that all those antioxidants would protect him. The irony still made her laugh, a dry, hollow sound that caught in her throat.

She bought the spinach anyway.

Back in their apartment, Buster—David's surly black **cat**—watched her from his perch on the windowsill. He hadn't eaten properly since David died. Maya had tried everything: expensive wet food, different brands, hand-feeding. Nothing worked. The vet said it was grief, as if cats could understand loss.

Maya reached up to tuck a strand of **hair** behind her ear, her fingers catching on the gray streaks that had appeared overnight. At thirty-four, she felt ancient. The apartment felt ancient too, filled with David's things, his smell still lingering on his pillow, his coffee mug still stained with his lipstick mark from the morning he collapsed.

Buster meowed—a raw, desperate sound—and butted his head against her hand.

"I know," she whispered, sinking to the floor. "I know."

The cat climbed into her lap, purring loudly despite his ribs showing through his black fur. And there in the kitchen, surrounded by uneating spinach and an empty apartment, Maya finally let herself cry—not the controlled tears she'd shed at the funeral, but the ugly, sobbing kind that left her breathless and shaking.

Buster stayed with her through all of it, his warm weight anchoring her to a world that still kept spinning, indifferent and cruel and occasionally beautiful.