With every cracking of a can, comes a swathe of emotions, ranging from curiosity, hunger, primordial urges, laziness, and joy. Occasionally, disgust, and revenge, at something unwanted or untimely. Instinctively, it was but a shell that kept Felicity away from dinner. So while the distant metallic crackle rings like a soup kitchen bell, something stirs overhead.
Sacrificial cymbals down the stairs, like an unfortunate old man’s tumble. At the edge of the stairs, she waits for her prey to come to her. A little spider lady for her overfed prospective spouse. Eager eyes and the in and out of her finger nails gouge the air until it falls limp to but a last-second balloon exhale. Phhhbrrroeeey.
Silences are two-faced; farts in a crowded street or in a two-person elevator. In unbroken silence, Felicity toes on all fours, seemingly unseen, under the couch, behind my legs. The twitch of her whiskers brush and paint a fresh tickle against the Achilles in my right foot. I fell in love with an icy nose and emery tongue, as she gnaws my fingers and smells the semi-open dinner. Tuna.
Pickily, she walks away, like the fish died for nothing, as I slice up some blood on my thumb while opening the can. In a lazy flop, the can of unctuous flaked fish falls shaped like the can’s inside onto Felicity’s saucer, wafting away in her unnoticed smells.
And every time I enter my home, I smell it. Ready and generous. And every time, there seems to be a little nibbled and missing. In secrecy.