What the Cat Knew

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, her hands stained with the earthy residue of fresh spinach she'd been chopping for dinner. The clock showed 8:47 PM – David was late again. Not late enough to call, not late enough to matter, just late enough to make her stomach twist with that familiar hollow ache.

The orange cat bowl sat empty on the floor. Barnaby hadn't eaten in two days. David had said it was probably nothing, just a cat being old and finicky, but Margaret knew better. She'd found the gray hairs on her own pillow this morning, had watched David dress in the bathroom without really looking at her.

"He's sixteen," David had said that morning, pulling on his coat. "Cats get sick. They die. It's what happens."

What he'd meant: *We're forty-three. Things fall apart. Let it go.*

Margaret dumped the spinach into the salad bowl. Green and vibrant against the chipped ceramic. She'd bought that bowl on their honeymoon in Portugal, when they still collected objects like memories, when they still thought life would accumulate meaning instead of just things.

The door clicked open. David came in smelling of orange blossom perfume – floral, cloying, entirely unlike anyone he worked with. He hung up his coat without meeting her eyes.

"Barnaby's gone," she said.

David froze. "What?"

"I found him under the bed. He's gone."

Her husband crossed the room, his movements careful, rehearsed. Behind him, Margaret watched the way he checked his phone before kneeling beside the cat-shaped emptiness. She saw the text message light up his screen: an orange heart emoji from an unsaved number.

She picked up the spinach-stained knife and began chopping tomatoes, her hands steady, the knife finding its rhythm against the cutting board. Some dinners, you ate. Some, you survived.