What the Cat Knows

The glass of water sat untouched on her nightstand, collecting condensation like tears she refused to cry. Three weeks since David moved out, and Mara still couldn't bring herself to sleep on what used to be their side of the bed. The cat—a sleek black shadow named Banshee who had initially been David's idea—curled in the empty space instead, as if she too sensed the absence.

Mara ran her fingers through her hair, now longer than she'd kept it in years. David had always preferred it short, practical. She'd made an appointment tomorrow to cut it off, another return to the person she was before.

Banshee lifted her head, golden eyes studying Mara with that infuriatingly calm judgment cats perfected.

"What?" Mara whispered. "You think I'm pathetic?"

The cat stretched, stood, then padded across the mattress to press against Mara's side. The warmth was almost desperate.

She'd never wanted a pet. David had brought Banshee home as a kitten, some romantic gesture about building a family. Now the cat was the only thing remaining of their life together, and Mara found herself resenting and cherishing her in equal measure.

The water glass tipped when Mara reached for it, spilling across the nightstand. She watched the liquid spread toward the unread books, the framed photograph of their anniversary trip to Montreal. She made no move to stop it.

"Let it," she said aloud.

Banshee butted her head against Mara's hand, demanding attention. Absently, Mara scratched behind her ears, feeling the thinning fur of aging. Another thing they'd navigated together—growing older, growing apart.

Tomorrow she'd cut her hair. Tomorrow she'd clean this apartment properly, remove every trace of him. Tonight she'd let water spill where it wanted, let herself be pathetic, let the cat judge her for it.

Some griefs needed no audience beyond the creatures who'd witnessed everything anyway.