The rise and fall of fur, sunlight rippling across his perfectly groomed coat – it’s enchanting, hard to look away.
For 30 minutes, she’s watched the cat sleeping on three blankets, folded and piled on top of one another. She’s cold, but can’t bring herself to disturb the cat. She’d rather shiver, gooseflesh spreading, and observe. She has already taken a photo of the cat, curled up like a croissant, and posted it on Instagram with the hashtag #NotMyCat. It has 30 likes. People love cats.
What Helen doesn’t post, however, is how much she wishes she knew who the cat belonged to. Even more, she wishes she knew how the cat got in in the first place. The windows have been closed for days, almost a week, because a troublesome neighbour has a habit of burning car tyres in his garden once a month. This week is the monthly burning. And Helen hasn’t left the flat for that time, maybe a few days longer. She can’t remember – she doesn’t keep count. She works from home, feet up on her sofa, laptop on her lap.
