It was nearly impossible not to pregame this piece–it was nearly impossible not to try to catch a line in my head so that when I hit the timer to start the five minute countdown that I would have something to dig into.
The cat has just moved to the top of my feet. She was a minute ago tucked against my left side, leaned against my leg, bent so that I might prop up my computer for writing. I don’t think I rattled her–it was just time to move, time to move in the way that she does most every evening, migrating across the landscape of the bed, Matt and I the landforms around which she must work although not really–she’s literally on top of my feet and if I were to pursue my own rearrangement, I couldn’t, not without upsetting her. Not without the glare and the grumbly miaawww that says ever so clearly I am displeased with this.
This is every night, this negotiation between cat and humans, and it has gotten worse since Matt’s arrival and his soft-hearted allowance for pets in the room in the later hours. Beloved though she is to me, I’ve never allowed the cat to stay in my room overnight [my five minute timer went off here] and what’s true now is not so much that she is allowed to stay overnight, but just that she might, and might is rather enough excitement for the evening.
Today’s prompt: What can happen when we open the door to the undefined, when we let our first thoughts or instincts take the lead? Set a timer for 5 minutes and just write. Don’t worry about it making sense or being perfect.