With (another old one from the vault)

WITH
by Michael Kroetch

It isn't dawn yet. Almost all of her face is covered by the cat. The slow drum of its purr whirls through her. Out the window are crickets and the lonesome sound of a latenight car headed for the freeway. From the small window in her closet she could see the car. It would be a silhouette. Someone alone. Leaving. Maybe a few clothes would be laying in the backseat with a map, but maybe not. The person might not need such things. Or have had time. A fight. Yelling. The slamming of a screen door. Keys hot in the ignition. Spraying rocks. Skidding away. Off away down the road. Not stopping at the stop signs. Almost hitting an opossum. Breathing hard, short hot hard. Eyes ahead. Forgetting to turn on the lights. Then turning them on, remembering. The cool air whisking past the fingers, the smell of freshly cut hay slowing it all down to a constant. Every direction open and empty. Road.

She touches the cat between the ears where it likes most to be touched and it curls in tighter around her head. She is glad to have the cat, even if it is somewhat blind. When it drinks milk it makes a noise that pleases her more than anything else in the world. One very close to with.