Kipilefti

It’s 3.15 in the afternoon. I’m reading in bed under my new, expensive, soft soft soft blanket. The cats are curled up on top of the blanket but not on top of me, wise because I keep getting up to do small things around the house. They were curled up separately but a few minutes ago Pol, the all-black one, got up and walked a few steps and curled up on top of her sister, completely covering her body but leaving head and paws exposed. They’re so casually, completely comfortable with each other, even when they’re wrestling and seem to want to bite each other’s heads off. I like them best when the curl up together on my chest, on my legs, in the crook of my arm, one in my elbow and the other preventing my hand from moving.

Even though I have to clean up after them, even though I sometimes wish they wouldn’t wake me up at six, hungry for breakfast, or constantly throw the living-room rug out of alignment, I’m glad to have them, glad to have their company. They do make it harder than ever to leave the house, though.