TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile
Last night a black cat crossed my path as I was returning from my walk; it glanced at me before melting into the shadows under a tree. It appeared again this evening, crouching on the wall facing the front door: a glossy, well-kept creature, obviously someone’s grimalkin. It did not run away, only stared at me. I felt like it was waiting for me, but for what I do not know. I rifled the fridge for an offering, or oblation. Aged gouda? Double cream? That jar of fancy French paté? After my resident wren started to harangue it (brave little dude), it vamoosed, but I have a feeling it will bless me with a return visit. Haha, and I was so excited, I left my mobile phone in the fridge.