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| not this one |
There’s a guy sits in a room at the top of a wooden building in a room that can only be reached by a long and winding staircase.
The room is small; you couldn’t swing a cat, so the cat sits on the bench under the only window.
The window looks down over the roofs of the
city; the cat looks at the man sitting at the table with his hands raised
expectantly over the keys of an ancient typewriter that has seen equal amounts
of better days, and ink.
The man can smell coffee.
The coffee is fresh and the aromas reach
him through the door, which is partly open so that the room can breathe.
On the floor there are books, some are open, some will be opened, and some were closed only yesterday; the man has been here
a week.
He hasn’t eaten anything in that time and
now the smell of the coffee is causing his stomach to rumble in happiness.
The coffee is not for him, even though he
wishes it so.
Half way up those winding stairs is Mary’s
apartment and though he has never met her, never known her name, he realises
that he has tasted her coffee in his dreams.
The cat rises, stretches and steps onto the
floor of the room.
The cat is bored with the man’s hesitation
and slips through the open doorway.
The man doesn’t notice the cat leave.
The cat goes down the winding stairs to the
apartment where the coffee is brewing and meows softly.
The door opens and she slips inside.
The cat is a she.
She knows Mary.
She knows the man.
The man and Mary are
each ignorant of the other, yet both give the cat milk.
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