No one is home when I get to the house this morning.
I haven’t slept there in almost a week.
A mess of shoes lies inside the front door. Flip flops. Sneakers. Boots. Assorted envelopes and bills, most likely all mine, are scattered about the living room table. The kitchen sink is filled with dishes, as it was when I left, and a few empty beer bottles line the counter.
I grab a bowl from the cabinet and pour in some Frosted Flakes. Some milk.
The french press is still on the table from when I stopped in over the weekend. The grounds are stuck all along the glass. I sit down before it. Begin munching on my breakfast.
One of the cats comes in and pleads for some milk. Begging. Dragging her body across my shin. I ignore her, but she jumps up and sticks her face beside my spoon. Begins lapping it up. And I let her. I frown when I have to pull cat hair from my teeth as I chew, but I let her.
The windows have been open the past few rainy days and the air in the house feels heavy. Thick. Like moving through syrup.
I remove my button down and toss it on the kitchen floor. The male cat arrives and settles down. Naps on it.
Once I finish the cereal I sit there with the female, licking her paws in satisfaction, as my tummy rumbles with the first sustenance it’s received in almost a day.
I’m so tired and get the feeling the cat on the floor has the right idea. So I slide off the chair and spread out on the sticky tiles. Dream dreams of better times.