I
can't depend on the cat, he'll never tell. I know they're in there
though, I can hear them laughing. Everyday at lunch, half-way up the
walk, I stop and listen. I can feel the house breathing, panting
from their ruckus as they dance on the counter tops, slide their
fairy feet through leftover ketchup on the plates, hang from the
corners of my picture frames. And everyday, at lunch, I sneak up to
the door and fling it open—and am greeted by silence—and the cat.
God, they're fast. I look for evidence—patterns in the ketchup
like tracks on a junkies arm, lopsided pictures hanging on the walls.
Weighted corners and dead plants. I know they've been peeing in my
plants because the soil is dry except for one small moist spot.
