What the Cat Knew

The water glass sat between them on the table, condensation weeping down the sides like afterthoughts. Sarah traced the rim with her finger, avoiding Mark's eyes. They'd been having the same conversation for three years, in different kitchens, with different lighting. Today it was gray morning light filtering through cheap blinds.

"You're not hearing me," Mark said, his voice rasping. He reached across the table, palm up, an invitation she couldn't take. Not again.

"I hear you. I just don't believe you anymore."

Their cat, Buster, materialized from nowhere and jumped onto the table, knocking the water glass. It shattered. Water everywhere, spreading like all the things they'd never cleaned up. Sarah stared at the puddle reflecting her fractured face.

"Jesus, Mark, pick him up."

"He knows something's wrong," Mark said, instead of moving. "Animals always know."

Sarah thought: animals know when you stop touching each other. When you sleep back-to-back. When you become roommates who share a mortgage and a cat and nothing else.

"He knows we're unhappy," she said.

"We could fix it. Counseling, like before."

"Counseling was last year, Mark. This year is different."

He reached for her palm across the wet table, glass shards glittering between them like debris from a small explosion. His hand was warm, familiar, wrong.

"Don't."

"Sarah. Please."

"The cat knows," she said, standing up. "He knew before I did. He started sleeping on your pillow six months ago. Like he was taking my place."

Mark looked at Buster, who was licking water from his paw, indifferent.

"I'll pack tonight," she said. "You can keep the cat. He chose you anyway."

She walked out, leaving the water and the broken glass and the husband who'd finally become someone she used to love. Buster continued cleaning his paw, utterly unconcerned. He'd get the bed to himself again. Some arrangements worked out fine.