the cat sat on the...desk

that summer, I spent hours at my desk. that awful, sticky, screechy glass desk.

in the mornings, the sun drifted in lazily. like steam from the fresh coffee resting on the kitchen stove.

in the evening, it flared in mercilessly through the nor-west window. brilliant and blinding.

and through the changing of the days, at the centre of it all, was me. me, stationary, statuesque. hunched against the kitchen chair - that damn kitchen chair I’d lifted upstairs some 3 months previous.

it was meant to be temporary, but here we are, passed the best that summer had to offer, and it’s still here. legs digging into the grey carpet. back acting as a makeshift clothes peg. and on it, me, staring ever deeper into the glare of the laptop with tom at my feet. i loved that cat. i loved him for his loyalty, his curiosity and his constant mischief that grew with each day. i even loved him when he bit my shins for no reason other than he was a cat. and cats do what they want. always.