The Cat Who Knew I Was Dead Inside

The cat appeared on Tuesday morning, perched on my cubicle wall like some judgmental sphinx, its yellow eyes piercing through my corporate haze. I'd been feeling like a zombie for months—since the layoffs, since Elena left, since I stopped being able to remember what I'd eaten for breakfast two hours later.

"You're not really here, are you?" the cat seemed to say, though cats don't speak. Maybe I was hallucinating from sleep deprivation. Three years at this firm and I'd forgotten how to dream.

I found myself at the apartment pool that night, staring at the water while fathers chased screaming children and couples argued quietly about mortgages. The cat was there too, sitting on a lounge chair like it owned the place, watching me with that same sphinx-like wisdom.

"Nice view," a woman said, dropping into the chair beside mine. She looked my age, thirty-something, with the same hollowed-out eyes I saw in mirrors. "I'm Sarah. The zombie shift?"

"Marcus," I said. "Something like that."

We talked until the pool lights clicked off—about the jobs that ate us alive, the marriages that dissolved like sugar in warm water, the way we'd both stopped expecting surprise from life. She'd left corporate law to paint. I admitted I used to write before spreadsheets replaced my soul.

The cat jumped between our chairs, demanding attention. Sarah laughed, and the sound surprised me—genuine, not the polite laughter I gave in meetings.

"You know," she said, scratching behind its ears, "sphinxes were guardians of mysteries. Maybe that's what cats are. Maybe they're here to remind us that everything doesn't have to be explained."

I looked at the water, at Sarah, at the cat who'd materialized like a reminder that I wasn't actually dead inside. Just asleep.

"Want to get coffee?" I asked. "Somewhere that's not work."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, absolutely."

The cat vanished before we left. Some sphinxes only appear when you're ready for their riddles.