What the Cat Knows

The apartment was too quiet without her. Mark stood in the kitchen, watching water boil for pasta. He'd bought fresh spinach at the market because Elena used to say it reminded her of her mother's garden—earthy and resilient, like the people who grew it. Now the spinach sat wilting in the colander, much like his marriage had over the past three years.

Barnaby, their orange tabby, wound around Mark's ankles, meowing insistently. Elena had taken the good furniture, the espresso maker, and most of the books, but she'd left the cat.

"You knew, didn't you?" Mark said, dropping to the floor to stroke Barnaby's head. "You knew before I did."

The cat purred, kneading Mark's thigh with practiced indifference. Animals possessed that particular wisdom—they witnessed everything, understood nothing, and judged no one. If only friendship between humans could be so uncomplicated.

His phone buzzed. David, his oldest friend, asking if he wanted to catch the baseball game tonight. The Cardinals were playing, and David had season tickets behind home plate. Mark declined. Some losses required solitude.

In the living room, the goldfish bowl caught the afternoon light. Elena had won the fish at a carnival last summer, during that brief, desperate phase when they'd tried dating again. The fish—a drab comet she'd insisted on naming Geoffrey—swam in endless circles, its mouth opening and closing in silent protest.

Mark dropped a pinch of food into the bowl. Geoffrey rose to the surface, gulping at the surface with the same mindless persistence that had characterized his and Elena's final months together.

"At least one of us is getting fed," Mark muttered.

He drained the pasta, stirred in the spinach, and carried his plate to the window. The apartment across the way was dark. For years, he'd watched strangers live their lives through lit windows—dinners, arguments, television flickering against walls like private cinema. Now he was the one being watched, if anyone cared to look.

Barnaby jumped onto the windowsill, tail flicking with aristocratic judgment. Outside, the city moved forward without him. Somewhere, a baseball stadium roared with collective anticipation. Somewhere, Elena was probably sleeping with someone else.

Mark ate his spinach, cold and gritty, and imagined Geoffrey's bowl shattering on the floor. He'd have to find the courage to do it eventually—to release them both from this glass-walled purgatory. But not tonight. Tonight, he'd watch the fish swim in its endless circles and pretend it was enough.