The Last New Day With Her

A warm, yellow light began to peek under the bottom of the fridge — the start of a new day.

Right on cue, a shadow fell across the strip of light. A black nose immediately stuck itself in the gap between the fridge door and the floor, the white, furry mustache below the twitching nose visible in the slowly disappearing darkness.

My companion, visiting as she did every day, crying out for me with soft, pleading meows.

We were nearly inseparable for several long days after I was separated from my other half, a long, skinny, green bottle filled with a liquid that occasionally splashed up to kiss me whenever he swayed about in the air.

After I was ripped from him and carelessly tossed on the ground in front of her, she immediately took to me, reaching out to stroke me in reassurance. I slid along the floor at her sudden touch, and she chased after me. The start of our love story.

The thrill of sliding along the hard floor as she followed after me is a feeling I reminisce over often since we, too, had been separated.

I don't blame her, even now. It was a terrible day for both of us when she accidentally swiped me too far under the fridge. I remember the way her paw had reached for me, desperately.

It had scrabbled along the floor the same way, the way it anyways did, on that new day, hopeful that this time it would stretch far enough to finally touch me once more. I had longed for the same thing.

I hardly know how long we had done that unsatisfying dance; it feels like I have been trapped here away from her forever.

After a few cries for me, they suddenly ceased and her paw withdrew. That moment of silence always sent a wave of sadness through me, wondering if this is the day she will give up on me. On us.

After a moment, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Petrie, what are you-? Are you still trying to get that bottle cap?”

The woman's laugh rang cruelly, the same way she had viciously tore me from my first love and emptied him of his essence.

“I can't believe you still remember that it's there,” the woman continued, though her voice faded along with her footsteps as she spoke.

Suddenly, a golden gaze was peering at me — a reassurance, I thought. That she could never forget me. That she will always come back for me. That one day, somehow, we will be reunited.

“Hey, did you finish packing up the stuff in the bathroom?”

The woman's quiet words had barely registered. How could they, when her beautiful, slitted eyes were staring into my soul?

I tried to express in that moment that she could leave me now to start her day, that she didn't need to stay. That we could try again next time.

She had blinked slowly at me, lovingly, before her visage disappeared from view.

If I had known that would be the last time I saw her, I would have spent longer memorizing how she looked. I would have committed the sound of her voice to memory.

If I had known the next day, no black nose would greet me once the sun began to rise and shower the kitchen in light, would I not be so heartbroken?

I now live with another couple that moved in shortly after, and they, too, have a cat. He never notices me, though, never takes the time to even look. I always watch longingly as his feet — orange, not white — pass by, wishing I had a voice to get his attention.

Would I ever be loved again?

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A big thank you to R. C. Taylor (https://shopping-feedback.today/authors/r-c-taylor) for letting me write fanfiction about her cat. <3