She was an orange tabby with just a bit of white on her face to look as if she’d dipped into something floury or pasty–and had not bothered to hide the evidence of her mischief.
The process was thus: she crept out of her cage and began exploring, slowly at first, with her nose and the her the rest of her body joining in. She sniffed along dark and light corners. I stayed in my own and watched, understanding that too much too soon would not for this cat or probably any cat.

She didn’t have a name yet. Yes, they had given her one at the shelter but I wasn’t buying it. I wanted to name her something simple like Mary or Susan. But then as I watched her move about, more sure of herself and her surroundings, it became clear to me her name should be Catalina, like one of the first Pontiacs I owned.

She was long like one; and moved smoothly as such.

The little boy was told to stay, as if he were a dog. And at his age, it seemed a fair assessment, of his training. He did stay and waited for his mother to come back.
Instead his father came back. He looked disheveled, tired. A bit miffed.
He took the boys hand and led him into the park. The little boy couldn’t resist running through the field, toward the swings, the father following, then hoisting his son up on the saddle, pushing slowly then more and more until the the child swung as high as the father thought appropriate.
His mother arrived a couple of hours later. She complained about the chocolate ice cream on his shirt. The father complained about how long she took for her appointment. The boy stayed, without being asked by either parent.

My cat seems to be asking a question. And the question also seems to be: Am I going to eat now?
And the answer seems to be yes…eventually you will.

They also live in a prewar coop. They also have children and have great jobs.

They love and cook and are very funny. They dress well. The love to travel.

This is all the same for me and my husband. We just met them and have gone out a few times, to movies, theater and outdoor concerts in the park.

But then suddenly, after a month, they stopped calling, texting. I wondered if me or my husband had said something wrong.

“Who cares?” my husband said. “We’ll find another couple. And why do we need another couple? We have plenty of friends.”

“But we don’t have this type of couple.” Almost as soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize the horror of what I am saying.

I’m so ashamed and embarrassed that I can tell no one–not even my husband, who I daresay has not figured out how maliciously superficial I am.

So I tell my therapist. I’ve had a therapist for years. I ask my therapist if I’m somehow prejudice because I want to have a gay couple as our new best friends, instead of a straight couple.

Her answer is, of course, a question: “Do you think you’re prejudice because you want your new best friends to be a gay couple?”

But not too high. You remember that time I got on that God-awful see-saw and freaked out? Well, okay, good then. So not so high.
I feel the same way about traveling to another country. I’m not much of a traveler. I used  to just tell people (But only when they asked) that I did not like traveling. But now the phrase, “I’m not much of a traveler.” seems to work pretty well. Some people will inquire further about my decision to stay in the contiguous United States. And this is when I get creative. I tell them I get constipated or sick. And that seems to satisfy people–now these people I’m talking about are strangers, so I don’t have have to delve too much into the intricacies of my idiosyncrasies.
Friends are different. They have me figured out and they know I am a liar. So they just nod their head as I give them the next crucial piece in my anti-travel manifesto.
My husband is another story. He flat-out divorced me citing “irreconcilable differences.” Although he did not specify in the paper-work that it was because I don’t like to travel and he does.

The wind tripped through the terrain, like an elderly man in the last throes of an argument. My father was filled with stories and hot air.
Mostly hot air. I fanned myself, listening, but not really paying attention.
When I was a kid, father would become enraged if you looked away, or gave him a “look.’–he was so sharp back then. But now he was just babbling on and on.
I took my eyes from him for longer and longer periods, preferring the piece of the breeze that lifted the fronts of the nearby plants and bowed the heads of wild grass out front.
I knew should mow the lawn. I could drown out his voice that way.
But I was too lazy.

Time had only to tick its seconds, minutes, maybe more–before I realized that there so much of those minutes and seconds behind me. I saw this time passing especially for my cat, Pepper. Cat’s age much faster than people. Pepper went almost suddenly from a kitten risking high jumps and romps from the kitchen sink to sudden long pauses and considerations before taking a safes step down from a shoe box to a Persian rug a few inches below her.

Poor thing, my friends said of Pepper.

Oh shut the fuck up, I want tell them. I want to tell them: your pauses and considerations are going to be much worse. Hell, they already are. We’re in our fifties now and we waste precious minutes deciding which yogurt is best. And things like which one of us will get Alzheimer’s? Which one of us will divorce? Which one us will end up with the child who shoots to kill?

But I digress. I’d meant to talk about the very first watch I’ve owned in decades–a birthday gift (A simple Rolex–which I didn’t know they still sold). The watch has hands and I like to stare at the little flick of the long hand. I’m told it’s the same as meditating–like staring at the flick of a flame or even listening to the drip of a faucet. Maybe. But there’s nothing like feeling anger when you look at that hand flicking clockwise.

I want him so much. I want to be him. I want to be in him. I only pretend to listen to what he has to say while my eyes study him. He knows I’m studying him because I am not  looking into his eyes.
He stops talking.
What? I say.
You’re not listening to me, he says.
You’re right. I am not.
He gives a short laugh.
I’m distracted I tell him. I tell him I’m trying to figure him out.
Well that’s what conversation is for, he says. To learn about someone else.
Not that kind of figuring out. I tell him about the nooks and crannies I want explore and figure out.
Attraction is wanting to figure things out, I tell him.

When I used to ride the train, I used to only notice the men whore wore wedding bands.  Which is weird because I was absolutely not interested in marriage.
Now that I am married, I notice, even more, men with wedding bands. And I haven’t ridden a train in years.

It seemed impossible, that I should sing or dance or act. And it still does. But I have seen bridge, many a times, in the spring, which gives me hope. Just now, in the last few weeks, as the snow melted and I saw a wet ground, I saw its jutting with rails.
Rails?
No. Floorboards. Then a banister. By early April I could see more of the thawed out passage way. Music sprouted from its platform. A melodious offering vibrating my feet, when I dared step on it. I want to get on this bridge. Because when I do, I can understand the music. I can sing its lyrics and twist my body to its direction.

It’s more than a bridge, I realize. But I’m not yet over the bridge to realize what it has mean to me.