A midday ride to Randall’s Island. Came home. Looked for Marlee at the door. Not there. Not by the window or on my bed. Where could he be? My apartment isn’t that big.
I opened my closets. Sometimes he sneaks in when I’m getting a jacket or pair of shoes. Today he didn’t. Maybe he got out the door as I left. Checked the hallway, then all 12 flights of stairs. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I pushed through the doors, out to the sidewalk. I hoped he hadn’t run out into the street or by the Metro North tracks. The thought of him under the 1:45 from Grand Central Station to Valhalla drove me to hysteria. That, or him wandering the streets—even though he’s a rescue cat, he’s spent practically no time outside in the 14 years since I adopted him.
Took the elevator up to my apartment. Maybe a drink, something to eat would jog my nonexistent psychic powers. There must be something in the water, Poland Spring to be exact: I heard mewling and saw him playing with a fish toy I bought him last week.
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