The cat and I

I stare out the window.

I have 3.40 metres of window and a large window sill. I sit and stare in the sun, at the trees, at the snow on the ground when it was, and at the snow falling now.

Across from me, a cat in a flat. Also with 3.40 metres of window. We sit and watch the snow fall, the squirrels run, the birds make their nests.

Sometimes we just stare, first to the left at one small detail, perhaps a fluttering piece of litter. Then we move positions and stare to the right, eyes glazed over but every detail taken in. We are transfixed, trance like until a sudden movement, and we are upon it.

The cat and I stare out the window, sometimes so soft we see our own reflection staring back and are lost in the peculiarities of our faces. Sometimes we stare so far that our eyes water, strain to see beyond the sunset, which he sees in reality, and I see in reflected glory on the tinted windows of the uppermost floor of his flat.

The car and I stare. But never at each other.