A kitten is licking water droplets on the hood of the truck. Bon Iver is beneath, tapping dubiously at something with a paint-speckled crescent wrench.
‘Whose kitten is this?’ I ask, giving it a scratch.
Bon Iver rolls out and squints at it. ‘That’s not ours?’ he says.
Neither of us is sure.
There is a cat that lurks at my new cottage. (You realize, I have moved to a cottage, I am living the fantasy world that is Bon Iver Erotica, with someone way cuter who hates yacht rock and loves The Fall.) When we leave for the day, she’s on the porch, rubbing against the posts. When we come home, she’s running up the stairs with us. She belongs to the neighbors across the way, but they lived in our cottage before us, and I think this cat still thinks of this cottage as her home. It’s sort of a great situation since we get the perks of a cat without the responsibility of a cat.
Once I was reading on the sofa and I heard a loud clang. The cat had jumped up to the windowsill and was looking through it, right at me. Cuteness was stalking me.
Last night, we took a walk. The cat was feeling friendly, and sort of hiked along with us, curving around the corner of the street, passing houses. We’d stop and look at the stars, the cat would stop and scratch an itch on the street. Once we got to a particular house, the cat stopped; she couldn’t continue with us. We turned around and saw a different white cat in the middle of the road.
When we got to the park, we watched some fireflies and heard the noise of some small animal crashing through the branches. We sprinted back home.