Member-only story
THOUGHTS
Ways the Universe Might End — But Not Today
Or how my cat is (not) responsible for the heat death of the universe
Everyone knows you can’t move a sleeping cat.
Abui is asleep, and so I cannot move. He has clambered into my lap and then higher, nudging his way up my chest so that I support him with one arm as he nestles into his spot beneath my chin. There, he purrs, deep and resonant, tossing his head back for chin scratches. Then, turning sideways, the purrs fade until he is asleep, and I am immobilised.
My coffee is on the table, out of reach. It was freshly brewed when I poured it. Now, it grows cold, and I watch as the steam becomes thinner. I run my fingers over the cat’s soft ears.
He is a tuxedo cat, his fur perfectly divided between black and white. You can trace the line from his hindquarters to the bridge of his nose and back again in a circle. There is no black in his white, no white in his black. He is a black cat that waded through milk. A white cat cloaked in the void.
In a certain light, his black fur fills with pinpricks of colour, like distant stars. Some strange prism effect of eumelanin and keratin.
Stuck here, I think about all the things I need to write. All the articles that need…
