A black cat stalked out of the sunlight like a shadow and rubbed up against my leg. Its fur was warm, dusted here and there with the debris of a summer street. Dried leaves. The down that falls from plane trees. It slunk under the bench I was sitting on, into the shade. I dropped my arm down to stroke it.
It bit me.
It didn't draw blood.
It just bit me, lightly.
Then it sauntered off.
No apology.
But the way its black form cut a sharp silhouette against the sunny street, the way it walked so unapologetically, made me forgive it, instantly.
I stared at my unmarked hand. Bitten by a superior being.
It was like I'd been blessed.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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