"cathead"

Listen. It's two a.m. The sound you hear is the metallic whir of Chester Whitman's electrical can opener tearing into a tin of Starkist tuna. Chester hasn't been sleeping well lately. Not since his girlfriend Lorna left him. Not since she took off with the double bed, the sheets, the blankets, and his favorite pillow.

He stands at the kitchen counter in the dark, flicking bits of tuna into a white, ceramic bowl. Audrey, Chester's beloved cat and confidant since high school, died last week in her sleep. She loved tuna. He buried her under the tree out back. Audrey was Chester's first true love. She had big, beautiful green eyes, delicate cheekbones and tiny feet. She used to sit on his lap for hours, and he'd talk to her or just silently rest his fingers on her head.

Before she moved out, Lorna asked Chester if he loved Audrey more than her. Chester didn't say anything. He just smiled. Last night, when he used the can opener, Chester could have sworn he heard Audrey meowing. It was a strange sound: like a harmonica played backwards on a tape recorder. He even felt Audrey biting at his ankles and rubbing her body against his legs.

Then the phone rang and for a second he thought it was Lorna. He thought maybe she'd heard about Audrey and was calling to comfort him. But when he picked up the line, it was just a dial tone. And the meowing had stopped.

Listen. That is the sound of Chester Whitman's fork as he scrapes the last bits of tuna into the bowl and puts it on the floor. In the silence of the darkened kitchen, he waits. He waits for a faint meow, a raspy purr. He waits for the sensation of warmth, furry and familiar, to rub against his bare feet.

Nothing. No meow. No nip at the heels. The phone doesn't even ring. He walks back into the bedroom, turns on the light, and stares at the place in the corner where his bed used to be.