White Air
I knew you were going to turn to the dark side soon, Kitty. The urge to bite gets stronger. I know; I'm your mother.
This morning when the snow was falling we were astonished to awaken, suspended, in our glass window near the river. The white vault of sky had finally broken, and buildings we usually see cast against it were fuzzed into motion; a matrix of untraceable paths to the earth.
I glanced at the red numbers of the clock and found that I beat the alarm. Perhaps you woke me up, your paws pressed stubbornly into my ribs, chin outstretched, bobbing at the dropping snow. I remember how you turned from the window with a squint, your large, luminous eyes flashing a successive red then green, scalding me with your gaze. I know how you hate it when I sleep through beauty.
It wasn’t until I put my shoes on and buttoned the lengthy purple coat over my white nightgown—its white ruffled trim hovering above the ground, indistinguishable from the hem of a dress—that I realized there was nowhere to go. I had intended to walk to the corner and purchase the day's newspaper as well as a half-gallon of orange juice. And outside the hall buzzed with its customary yellow light. But when the elevator door closed, the car did not descend. I opened and closed the door, pushed and prodded each bright button, but the light remained fixed on floor number 9.
I got out and walked to the stairwell. My bicycle was locked to the railing, though beneath there were no stairs, only a seeping mist. I fished my foot down into the white, slowly moving it further and further until I had dangled an entire leg, but still no surface greeted it. Just wind, and the cool sensation of barely frozen air.
I walked back into the apartment. "We're on the same footing now, Kitty. Neither of us can leave."
You stretched your legs in a shock of motion and turned your head sideways, upwards from the bed. Your eyelids opened a crack, revealing a glint of the glassy surface. The curl of your mouth suggested a smile.
I pushed my hand into the soft fleshy fur of your shoulder blades. You dimmed your eyes and emitted a purr, the low, constant hum like a well-tuned motorcycle. Fur rose gently along your neck. My hand began to quiver, part tickle, part itch.
Then you snapped your head back and bit me hard.
"Does it satisfy you?" I asked, not withdrawing my hand.
You dug your teeth in deeper and looked straight at me. In the opaque light refracted off the snow—the heavy masses of clouds releasing—your pupils narrowed. Two thin, needlelike slits shot up from beneath a proud, furry brow. Drops of bright blood oozed from the punctured flesh.
I tightened my grip on your shoulder and shot a glance at the clock. 9:03. Something must be upholding us. I spun you over with a quick sweep of the arm and slipped out before you could dig your back claws in. You regarded me with a tilt of the head.
At 9:05 I hurried down the steps. In an accustomed gesture, I touched the blood to my lips.