At precisely 6:14 p.m., a key turns in a door. As it opens, a slice of fluorescent brilliance knifes into a twilit room, illuminating a white cat. The innocuous bundle of fluff remains impassive until the person attached to the key strides into the isosceles light and pushes the door shut. Locks it.
“Miao,” the cat grouses.
“Seriously,” replies the man.
As he tosses his coat over the back of a couch, loosens his tie, and collapses into a chair, the cat mounts the top of the battered leather throne and warms the nape of his neck.
They sit together in soundless ambivalence, waiting for the next moment to steal them.