Or how it feels to be a coyote in a small town
It’s a cold, wet, morning here at the farm as I write. I’ve been up since 3AM, unable to fall back asleep thanks to the existential anxiety in my head. Siren wails of anxiety, like a tornado warning, circle in my mind like hovering vultures. I’m up because of a platonic incubus in black. Angus, my 6-month-old kitten, is who initially woke me up, is resting on my chest. His paws on my cheek, his face hovering inches from mine in the quiet dark. I pulled him in under the covers, and felt his purr against my own heartbeat as he started to snuggle into the warmth. Paws kneading into soft flesh, a gentle motor, the kind of comfort you can only get from another mammal seeking heat. That’s what he came for and I was ready to deliver.
I held my small boy close. He will grow into a very fluffy gentleman, but right now all his volume is in his tail. He curls it around my arm as he closes his eyes. I pet his head, scratch his chin. He helps me forget about the tornado. Sirens fade, replaced by purrs.
I think of all the years I told myself stories about me and how wrong they were. “You’ll be married by 32” or “You’re not gay, Jenna, just picky” or “You don’t like cats.”
Turns out I love pussy. The lies we tell ourselves are rafts. They get us places we need to be and then we end up carrying them around on dry land like idiots until we realize we don’t need them anymore.
What was I up thinking about? That’s a great question. If you’ve got a few minutes I’ll tell you everything, darlin’.
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