What the Cat Knows

The clump of hair in the drain told Elena everything she'd been trying to ignore. Three rounds of chemotherapy, and her body was surrendering in increments she could measure in the shower. She wrapped herself in Marcus's robe—that threadbare thing he refused to throw away—and found him in the study, bent over his laptop like a man praying to a cruel god.

"It's happening," she said, holding up the dark strands like evidence.

Marcus turned. His sphinx tattoo stretched across his shoulders as he moved, that mythological creature with the enigma and the wings. "What's happening?"

"My hair. It's really leaving."

He crossed the room and took the hair from her hand, letting it slip through his fingers. "It'll grow back."

"Will I?" The question escaped before she could cage it.

They stood there in the quiet of their crisis, the words they weren't saying stacking up like debris. Arthur—her cat, named for the philosopher king who'd recognized the sword in the stone—wound between their legs, purring like a small motor of indifference. He'd been sitting on her pillow at night, as if her body heat had become his territory.

"You know what cats do," Elena said suddenly. "When they're dying, they leave. They go off alone to spare everyone the spectacle."

"You're not dying, El."

"Aren't I? We're all dying. Some of us just have a clearer timeline."

She pulled away from him and went to the window. Below, their Chicago street was autumn-stripped and beautiful in its devastation. Like her. Like everything.

"The sphinx," she said. "What was her riddle again? What walks on four legs, then two, then three?"

"Man. Crawling, walking, then leaning on a cane in old age."

"Maybe she got it wrong. Maybe the real answer is: the things we lose. Hair. Time. Each other."

Arthur jumped to the windowsill, pressing against her side. She buried her face in his orange fur—so much of it, so careless with its abundance. The cat purred louder, as if trying to vibrate some truth into her bones that words couldn't reach.

"He knows," Elena whispered. "Whatever wisdom is, he's got it. No riddles. Just living."

Marcus's hands settled on her shoulders. She could feel his sphinx tattoo against her back, wings spreading across her spine.

"Then let's be like Arthur," he said into her hair—what was left of it. "No riddles. Just living. Whatever that looks like."

She turned and pressed her face into his chest, breathing him in. Below them, the city moved through its evening, all these brief, brilliant creatures trying to solve the riddle before time ran out. Arthur purred against them both, impatient for dinner, certain of his place in the universe. Some mysteries, Elena thought, you didn't solve. You just let them sit beside you, warm and alive, until whatever was going to happen came.