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Even in the dark, I can see that it’s red. Obnoxious, look-at-me, I-probably-rev-my-engine-at-stop-lights red.
Feral cat, I remind myself. She’s a feral cat I’ve managed to lure a step closer to me. If I make any sudden moves, I’ll cause her to retreat. To hiss and run away, maybe claw my eyes out in the process. I have to take my time with her.
It’s not like you get a do-over for these years. You don’t get the time back…being young, you know?
When someone reports him as missing, they’ll make him out to be a saint. A god among men. They’ll sing his praises and speak about what an amazing man he was, what a monster someone would have to be to take him away from the ones who loved him. It’s what always happens. The price I pay for ridding the world of men like him. I’ll spend the rest of my life hearing about how amazing they were. In death, everyone becomes a hero. Otherworldly. The dead become something of myths and legends, even when everyone knows the truth.
There’s this road I take to work every morning, and on it, I pass two houses, side by side. One is an older farmhouse with a classic wraparound porch, shutters, and character. The other is completely modern. Clean. It has black siding and large windows. They’re so completely opposite, and yet I can picture living my life happily in either one. Two different lives, two different paths. In one, it’s a quiet life. A wife. Two kids. A dog. We drink coffee on the porch together each evening and soak up the sunset. Christmases are cozy at our house, and we’re the hosts for every family party. The
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“I’ve always liked cats. They don’t trust anyone. I respect that.”
