Henrik sits in a chair by an open window, reading a book.
A gentle breeze moves the curtains.
After a time, Henrik lays down the book, stands, and looks out of the window, across the dull, greasy water to the little island, smoke blue and quavering at the bay’s cold mouth.
Below the window, engines thrumming, an island ferry arrives at the dock.
Henrik moves to sit down, but a cat has taken the chair.
He decides to play a game with the cat. He hovers his rear end over the animal, and slowly lowers himself.
Henrik has played this game with the cat many times.
But this time, the cat does not move. Henrik’s rear end is now touching the cat. Now pressing the cat. Now squeezing the cat. This is unusual. Now crushing the cat.
“What are you doing?” asks Greta, standing in the doorway.
Startled, the cat squirms from underneath Henrik’s crushing butt, and disappears under the couch. Henrik watches as the tip of the cat’s tail vanishes, then looks up at Greta.
Henrik says: “Playing with the cat.”
Greta says: “We don’t have a cat.”
Henrik, realizing his rear end remains suspended a cat’s width above the chair, sits down.
Greta, an odd look on her face, says: “What color was the cat?”
Henrik pauses, then says: “It was a white cat.”
Greta says nothing to this. She stares a moment at Henrik, huffs, turns, and walks away down the hall to the kitchen, fixing her hair.
Henrik stares after Greta, saying nothing.
He picks up his book and begins to read.
After a time, Henrik lays down the book, stands, and looks out of the window, across the dull, greasy water to the little island, smoke blue and quavering at the bay’s cold mouth.
Below the window, engines thrumming, an island ferry arrives at the dock.
Henrik watches as the ferry slows and lowers its ramp. A cat races down the ramp and disappears among the pilings.
Henrik moves to sit down, but a cat has taken the chair.
He decides to play a game with the cat. He hovers his rear end over the animal, and slowly lowers himself.
Henrik has played this game with the cat many times.
But this time, the cat does not move. Henrik’s rear end is now touching the cat. Now pressing the cat. Now squeezing the cat. This is unusual. Now crushing the cat.
“What are you doing?” asks Greta, standing in the doorway.
Startled, the cat squirms from underneath Henrik’s crushing butt, and disappears under the couch. Henrik watches as the tip of the cat’s tail vanishes, then looks up at Greta.
Henrik says nothing.
Greta says: “It’s time for supper.”
Henrik, realizing his rear end remains suspended a cat’s width above the chair, stands.
Greta, an odd look on her face, says: “What color was the cat?”
Henrik pauses, then says: “It was a black cat.”
Greta says nothing to this. She stares a moment at Henrik, huffs, turns, and walks away down the hall to the kitchen, fixing her hair.
Henrik turns and looks out of the window, across the dull, greasy water to the little island, smoke blue and quavering at the bay’s cold mouth.
Below the window, engines thrumming, an island ferry arrives at the dock.
