Nick Cave just said “we are fireflies trapped in the hand of a boy”. I take another sip of my blonde beer and contemplate those words. My cat looks at me with questioning eyes.
“You just had dinner, so that can’t be it. Do you want a good petting, perhaps?”, I think to myself. I give it a try. It works. The cat looks away.
I return to my Fujifilm X100V and browse through the photographs I’ve just taken. They look so happy. So content with the surplus of food they now have access to. Good. I hope the power of controlling their own feeds calms them down a little. So far it seems to work.
I take another sip of my beer as Charlotte starts clearing the table of the afternoon’s bites. I’m left with the honor of cleaning the tiny spoons used to scoop up dips on the final loaf of bread.
The cat repositions. I do the same. His head is now resting firmly on my arm. I can’t keep this up forever but for now I’ll concede. I am politely asked to clean those spoons from before so that they too can relocate to the dishwasher. I needn’t be asked that again but at the same time notice the other cat settles down on her lap. Those spoons aren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Another sip of my beer as I type these final lines. I look down at the cat on my lap. Then at her, the cat on her lap.