BREADCRUMBS: /home/zuihitsu/singularity/retain/s09022801
[2008-11-12e02:05:11]
"I think my right leg is French," commented my cat late one evening.
"Is this a problem?" I asked, unsure of where this was going.
"No," she answered brightly. She stretched her leg out and contemplated it for a moment. "But if that's where you see my perfection it could upset my colour balance." She flicked her tail, then curled into my lap, "not a problem."
It was going to be a long night. "I'll put the kettle on." Somehow I just knew.
"You've remembered more about your dream," my cat muttered. I looked down at the furry form curled into my lap. She'd been as silent as the grave for hours.
"I thought you couldn't read my mind," I said with a bemused tone.
"I can't, I just know the right thing to say." She opened an eye and looked at me, "but you read mine." I knew she wanted something I just couldn't fathom it yet. Something had bruised her ego. I sipped my tea, she didn't need my empathy right now.