Short Story #084 'I, Too, Am a Cat'

The cat had no name.
The man, too, has not had much of a name lately.
The man did not intend to keep the cat.
He simply opened the balcony window three centimeters every night and set out a can of cat food on an old plate.
That was all.

Once, there were several words used to call the man.
Husband.
Father.
Manager.
His name.
Now, it was just the surname printed on delivery slips or the number called in the hospital waiting room.
His smartphone rarely vibrates.

The cat that came to the balcony had black fur.
Here and there, the fur was matted like traces of rain.
Even when the man called it 'Kuro,' the cat did not move its ears.
Even when he called it 'Sensei,' it did not react.
The cat simply sat in front of the plate and ate in silence.
When the man reached out his hand, it would make a low sound deep in its throat and pull away.
When it finished eating, it would climb onto the balcony railing without a sound and disappear toward the dark neighboring house.
The man would take the plate inside and close the window.
Only that sequence remained in the night.

One rainy night, the cat did not come.
The man left the plate out and waited with the window open three centimeters.
The wind wet the balcony floor.
A single drop of water slipped through the gap in the sash and onto the room's flooring.
The clock hands turned twice.
The cat did not come.
The man tried to clear the plate, but stopped.
He also made sure not to close the window.

The next morning, the cat food on the plate had dried out.
The man stared at the blackened edges for a while.
When he looked outside the window, a black shadow was sitting on the balcony two doors down.
The cat was looking at the window of another room.
That one, too, was open just a little bit.

The man did not wash the plate.
The window remained open by just three centimeters.