I think our cats can tell when we’re on drugs, but this is just a theory. Sometimes we’re melting into the couch while Parks and Rec plays the same episode for the sixth time because Leslie’s eyes keep falling lopsided into her mouth, and that’s been distracting me for like an hour. The cats sit off to the side, yellow eyes glowing expectantly. Expecting what I am not sure, but my little black cat sits with paws prim, tail folded neatly, a negative void in the grey carpet. Her muscles twitch in time with mine, because we are either both hunters or not. I ask her if she’s hungry. She opens her mouth to answer, but it’s just a yawn. I wait for her to yawn again. Maybe she’ll tell me the truth: You don’t clean my litter box enough. I usually watch you masturbate. When I jump off the porch, I’m not trying to leave you–I just want a peek at the edge of the world. I love you very much, but we don’t know each other at all.

Megan Navarro Conley is a writer and alumni of the Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House. Her work has appeared in Glass Mountain, STYLUS, Anime Feminist, and others. Originally from New Jersey, she works as an assistant editor outside of Washington, D.C. She likes to rant about books on Twitter at @fatorangecat_.