Tuesday 200 — one hundred eleven
What in the jimmy cricket is a Tuesday 200?
Jon’s at his desk, scratching out morning pages, trying to be present, to accept being alone’s only for a few weeks.
Maybe I’ll take myself dancing.
An almost kittenish meow floats up.
Hannah Meowtana’s paws on his chair, green eyes looking up, begging. He ponders painting her nails cherry red.
“Meoooww!” Whingeier now, like a stray whose been left starving.
“You just had breakfast. Lemme work, please.”
“MEEEOW.”
Freewrite thwarted, he reaches down to scritch the drama queen. She pulls her head away, lithely weaving between Jon’s legs, half purring, half chirping — the chiding they get for leaving her with the sitter for a weekend.
Nowhere near yesterday’s scolding form his cleaner for not changing the water in the I-can-buy-myself-flowers vase.
Cher forbid she suss how often he changes the Brita filters or toothbrush heads.
Jon follows Miss Meow to the kitchen to make sure she’s not actually starving. Yup. Food’s till there, pushed to the side. Plenty of dry in the other dish.
While nearby, he decides to tick the litter box.
As he reaches down to scoop it clean, he sees … no way …
What?
How’d she write her name in the sand?