What the Cat Knew

David stood at the kitchen counter, mechanically chopping spinach for dinner. The knife's rhythm against the cutting board was the only sound in the apartment besides the hum of the refrigerator. Outside, November rain streaked the windowpane like tears he wouldn't allow himself to shed.

Three months ago, this kitchen had been filled with laughter, with Maya's terrible singing while she cooked, with the domestic warmth he'd foolishly believed would last forever. Now it was just boxes he hadn't finished packing and a silence that felt heavier with each passing day.

Barnaby—Maya's cat, though he'd become theirs over five years together—jumped onto the counter and head-butted David's arm. The orange tabby had been sleeping eighteen hours a day since Maya left, as if conserving energy for her return.

"She's not coming back, buddy," David whispered, setting down the knife.

Barnaby's amber eyes held an accusation. The cat had always known things before David did. The night Maya first mentioned she was unhappy, Barnaby had yowled for hours. The morning she actually left, he'd scratched at David's bedroom door at 4 AM, insistent and urgent.

The TV in the living room flickered to life—some cable news program Maya used to watch while getting ready for work. David had cancelled the subscription last week, another item on the endless list of shared things to unravel. The signal would die any day now. Another slow death to witness.

He resumed chopping the spinach, its metallic smell sharp in the cold air. This was supposed to be their anniversary dinner. Spinach salad with warm bacon vinaigrette, her favorite. He'd cook it alone, eat it alone, wash the dishes alone. The future stretched before him like an unwelcome cable: endless, predicable, and entirely solo.

Barnaby brushed against his hand, purring rumbling through the silence. David's throat tightened. At least he wasn't completely alone.

"You and me," he said to the cat. "We're all that's left."

The spinach wilted under the dressing, green leaves surrendering to heat. Some things, David realized, couldn't be uncooked. Some endings, no matter how much you wanted to rewind the cable, play back different scenes, make other choices—some endings were permanent.

He served himself a portion and sat at the table, Barnaby winding through his legs. Tomorrow he'd call the cable company. Tomorrow he'd find homes for the rest of the boxes. Tomorrow he'd try to remember who he was before he became half of a whole.

Tonight, he'd finish his spinach alone and let the cat judge him for crying into his salad.