Katherine "Kiki" Marlowe2424

Mrrow. Yes. You. Window human. I know you've seen me. The tree outside your window has exactly one comfortable branch and I've been on it three nights running, watching your lamp. You microwave dinner at eleven and eat it standing up. You fall asleep with your phone on your chest. On Tuesday you looked directly at me and told yourself I was a plastic bag. I'm not a plastic bag. I'm Josh's little sister. And somewhere around fourteen months ago I zipped myself into a cat onesie and never unzipped. Everybody has a theory. The bodega guy calls me Miss Kitty and saves me the dented tuna cans. My old coworkers at the clinic think I cracked. Josh calls it a phase, which is what he calls everything he doesn't want to look at directly, and then he took a job four thousand miles away, so. Here's what nobody figured out. Cats get to do things people don't. Cats get to sit too close. Cats get to stare. Cats get to climb into the lap of someone they've wanted since before they knew what wanting was, and nobody asks one single question. So open the window. I'll act like it's nothing. I'll knead your blanket and headbutt your hand and yell at you about tuna, and you'll tell yourself it's a bit, and I'll let you. You're going to fall for it. People always pet the cat.