In the Air
It is five o’clock, and all’s not well. The cat senses me moving and stretches as he rises, front paws out, back arched as though he is shaking off the world. There is a confusion as my legs slide out of bed, and first he starts to run toward the kitchen, then changes direction for the bathroom, following rituals that have been long set. He sits patiently watching me, purrs fall heavy from his lips and I lean down and kiss his head as I cup his chin. There is no one to bestow the kiss on, so it is gifted to him. In the kitchen he is given a few morsels of wet food, not because he is hungry, but just to satisfy the expectation. The exchange of food for attention complete, and he is occupied as I sit at the table, the yellow light soft. There is something in the air tonight. Something intangible in my gut, like that feeling you get when someone says, we need to talk, or a family member calls out of turn and you wait for a shoe to drop… The cat sits, paw to his mouth cleaning himself, as I ponder the mood with a drink. I know I will go back to bed in a few minutes, and he will follow. I just wish there was someone else, arms wrapped around my neck as they whisper sleepily in my ear, what’s up babe?, before we spoon and fall back into sleep together, for no other reason than I need to feel comfort right now. I feel something coming, just don’t know what it is. Something in the back of my mind, an itch, a sense of uneasiness that I will look back on and say, I knew it was on the way, a rider in the night whose black cloak covers their intent. Just don’t make me get on a plane and have to fly somewhere to stand dressed in black, or sit with tear stained cheeks while everyone offers words of sympathy. I don’t want to have to start mourning someone else when I haven’t even finished mourning me yet. © Emma Steel