He walked in the kind of blur my life has been. This orange and white tabby. He crossed streets with me, stopped when I stopped, scampered ahead, then paused, looked back, waited for me to catch up.
I shook my head in the darkness, No. I am not the one you want to follow.
But he stayed close.
After ten minutes, we reached the footbridge together, the rush of highway roaring beneath us, and he stopped at the corner while I continued ahead. I looked back. I wanted to see him give up. I wanted to know that it was not me who let go.
Instead he watched me. He would not cross but he would not turn around.
I thought I’d stand there forever. Thought we’d grow old together. Follow or go, I pleaded with him, without words, only in the way I lingered on the bridge and waited there while the cars streamed below.
He did not move.
Of course, it would be me. I would be the one to turn away.