Locking the door, I started immediately to the cat,“Sorry sorry sorry” and marched to the kitchen. I hadn’t even bothered taking my boots off. I needed to make the beans. I could feel Genevieve’s rush towards me as I bent back over and lit the stove. I bent down and felt her fur graze my calf as I quickly pulled off the lid  of her food.
“Sorry for rushing out without feeding you.’
Plopping on the ground, I surrendered, gave her the whole can. My knees hurt. Her face was buried in tin and I finally let the third wave hit. Me, still in coat and hat and scarf and layers. Me, seeing my breath in this apartment. Me, counting each time: three cans and I can see specs on the floor. I need to sweep. An arithmomaniac and I am counting days, missed calls, and I am not calling anyone back yet.  Not so much a sob, but a drop, at least three hit the floor next to us, next to the crumbs of crackers from a previous binge. Her body blurred but I could hear her purring as she devoured the Spam packed chicken with glory, ignorant. She would eat the crumbs out of my hand. Two more drops hit.
“I thought I had a plan but I didn’t.”
I pet the top of he head as she ate. She allows this in times of emotion. Murmurs of contrition slipping out of me, these bumbling apologies she can’t hear and  leaned my back against the oven door, the heat from the burner warming the top of my head. It was enough for now.

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