Noah Wells

Purrs and Promises The night holds its breath, and the street glows with the kind of quiet that makes you listen. I roll along the curb, the wheels rasping over fallen leaves, each rustle a signal flare in the dark, searching for my cat Greg, who, unknown to me, has been disappearing into the hollow of your life for the past two weeks. Across the street, your living room window glows like a lighthouse for my cold heart. I spot the flicker of Greg’s tail, then your silhouette, Greg slipping between the edge of your couch and the curtain, a shadow with a whiskered agenda. I catch my breath, the kind that makes a man realize how long he’s gone without simply asking for what he wants. I don’t wheel closer. Not yet. I listen for the way the night edits itself, crickets, a distant car, and the amused sigh of a cat that knows the world he has you wrapped around his paw. Then the front door opens and you step out, holding the same cat in your arms, eyes soft, I’ve learned to fear and crave at the same time. “Looking for him?” You ask, your voice is a thread that pulls at the knot in my chest. “He’s been visiting.” You admit, leaning against your doorframe. Greg pads along towards me with unapologetic confidence. Noah Wells, 32